


The Angel Of Greenwich

by Somedrunkpirate, TayaSigerson



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Basically whatever you'd expect on your general crime show, Blood, Blood and Violence, Bookshop Owner!Aziraphale, But queer, Case Fic, Class Differences, Client!Aziraphale, Crime Scenes, Developing Relationship, Dismissive/dysfunctional police and justice systems, Family Issues, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens) (One scene), First Meetings, Flapper dress!Crowley, Fluff and Angst, Gangs, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Investigative Journalist!Anathema Device, Lawyer!Shadwell, Love Story, M/M, Maffia, Mentions of Murder, Minor character death (OC), Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Officer!Newt Pulcifier, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Private Detective!Crowley, Prohibition, Setting: 1920's New York, noir!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25592461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TayaSigerson/pseuds/TayaSigerson
Summary: “Well, you see, Mr Crowley. It would seem that I have been framed for murder.”— — — — — — — —A Noir murder mystery set in the 1920's with art from TayaSigerson. Private Detective Crowley has to find the truth about the body found in a bookshop, while trying not to fall in love with the man who hired him. His success might be doomed from the start.HIATUS UNTIL POST-CORONA. My housemate tested positive, I'm fine atm, but I'm not putting energy in bigger projects until the world makes a little more sense. Might post ficlets, might not. Who knows!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 49
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Good Omens Mini Bang, Good Omens Mysteries





	1. More Red Than Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Mini-Bang! Aaahh! Honestly I'm so happy and also Stressed that my posting day is finally here. I'm so so so so Excited to show yall the AMAZING art TayaSigerson ([Insta](https://www.instagram.com/tayasigerson/) [Tumblr](https://tayasigerson.tumblr.com/)) made for this. I was, and still am, blown the fuck away by it.
> 
> This is my 50th work posted on ao3 btw! Posted the first one in 2017. Its been a Ride ahaha.
> 
> I'll ramble further in the end notes, but thank you everyone who's been there for me during this project so far!
> 
> I hope yall will enjoy the first 'episode' of The Angel Of Greenwich. More is too come. This story got out of hand real quick.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, you see, Mr Crowley. It would seem that I have been framed for murder.”
> 
> — — — — — — — —
> 
> A Noir murder mystery set in the 1920's with art from TayaSigerson. Private Detective Crowley has to find the truth about the body found in a bookshop, while trying not to fall in love with the man who hired him. His success might be doomed from the start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mini-Bang! Aaahh! Honestly I'm so happy and also Stressed that my posting day is finally here. I'm so so so so Excited to show yall the AMAZING art TayaSigerson made for this. I was, and still am, blown the fuck away by it. 
> 
> I'll ramble further in the end notes, but thank you everyone who's been there for me during this project so far!
> 
> I hope yall will enjoy the first 'episode' of The Angel Of Greenwich. More is too come. This story got out of hand real quick.

Crowley takes a slow drag from his cuban cigar.

When he breathes out, the smoke momentarily obscures the man sitting in the chair in front of his desk. His shoulders are hunched and his eyes are flickering from the window, to Crowley, and back again.

This, in itself, is not unusual. There are few men with the ability to not appear anxious within these quarters. But what is out of the ordinary is the way Crowley found himself— affected, lets say, by the stranger’s presence. There is something about those golden curls and sky blue eyes that captures his interest immediately. Like there is strength there, beyond the tartan patterns and soft wool, a sense of power one might be lucky to have revealed to you, in the right circumstances.

The man’s gaze locks with his, and Crowley takes another drag, a shiver coursing down his spine.  
  
Obscured in the dark, Crowley lets his lips curl. It is a rare occurrence indeed for the Devil's curiosity to be piqued without a word of a case uttered.

Somewhere in the abscesses of his mind a silken voice whispers a warning. But he has not come this far by heeding such things. Crowley leans forward, out of the shadows and lets the orange glow of the street lanterns outside grant him an otherworldly appearance.

The man shivers.

Crowley grins. ”Well, my good fellow. What brings you to Hell?"

“To— To Hell’s Kitchen?” the man asks, cowering a little further. His eyes are now divided between Crowley and the exit, as if he’s gauging how long it would take to scurry out to safety.

“If you wish to call it that, sure,” Crowley allows, making a wide gesture with his hands. “Whatever we’re cooking up in here, it is not the kind of thing men like you usually involve yourself with. So I ask again. What brings you to my office, Mister…”

“Fell,” Mr Fell says quickly. “I run a bookshop in Greenwich Village.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

He would have expected something more… elevated. His wealth is easily visible in his clothing—the quality, the details, the custom fit —though only for those who know how to look for it. He does not advertise his means, but it is clear to Crowley that he is a man living in excess. At least compared to the majority of New York’s denizens.

Mr Fell huffs. “Yes, quite.” He straightens a bit, puffed up and defensive, though subtly so. “It is a lovely neighbourhood.”

Already, this man is full of intrigue. Crowley allows his grin to widen, leading forward further.

“I’ve heard quite a few things about that Village of yours. Is there anything about its… reputation, that causes you to seek out my help?”

“No, no,” Mr Fell shakes his head effusively. “No, at least. Not quite.”

He falls silent and takes a shuddering breath, and with it his shoulders hunch again.

A car passes by and he flinches. The headlights illuminate his face for but a second, yet it is enough to see deep stains underneath the man’s eyes, accentuating an expression of horror mixed with a sense of shock.

It tells a tale of having discovered something horrific beyond measure, Crowley knows the look very well. But what the nightmare entails depends on the person. For one, it is adultery, for another it is standing at the edge of destitution. There is only one reason why wealthy men come to Crowley; they are too ashamed to bring their problem to the police.

Mr Fell shakes his head again, and takes a deep breath. He leans forward with another furtive glance to the window, the orange glow a shimmer in his hair, and then catches Crowley’s eyes.

At once Crowley realises this is not a case like any other. This is no upper city smuck trying to hide his trysts from the public eye, or an insecure husband wanting his wife followed down the streets.

There is no shame in his expression. Only terror, desperation and utter determination.

Mr Fell takes another breath, licks his lips, and says, “Well, you see, Mr Crowley. It would seem that I have been framed for murder.”

— — — — — — — —

A slight drizzle has begun to fall from the sky. Crowley curses under his breath, thinks momentarily of the recent death of his trusty umbrella, and works quickly to secure the multitude of locks that guard the front door of his establishment.

One of the locks takes some abuse in order to close. Crowley slams the old thing into place until he hears the tell tale click.

“I am truly sorry I cannot answer all your questions at this time,” Mr Fell is saying. “But they did not want me to leave for long. It is better to take you with me.”

Crowley turns to see Mr Fell folding open an umbrella. They fit under it perfectly, standing a little closer together than propriety demands. Mr Fell doesn’t seem to notice.

“I assure you I will provide you with all the information once we are in less of a hurry. He should come—“ Mr Fell interrupts himself when they are suddenly engulfed in light.

Crowley snaps his head around, blinking in the face of it.

Headlights.

“Ah— There he is. He’d hidden himself, I see. I suppose in this neighbourhood he did not want to be obvious.”

A police car drives slowly out of the alleyway opposite from Crowley’s office.

“The cops let you come here while a body lays in your shop? How in the hell did you manage that?” asks Crowley, trying not to sound as shocked as he feels. The New York police force has made it quite clear that they do not want Crowley to touch any of their cases with a six feet pole, never mind involve himself while the blood is still fresh.

Mr Fell huffs, and bounces a little on the heels of his feet. “I asked,” he says primly. “But they only agreed with a chaperone, so I wouldn’t scurry away. As if I would!” He sounds hilariously flabbergasted at the idea, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him. “I want this to be solved as much as anyone. It is my shop, after all, and of course justice must be served.”

Crowley makes a non-committal noise and the car pulls up beside them. If this isn’t all performance, no substance, Mr Fell’s additude promises a lucrative case for him. As opposed to the adultery cases that take no more than a couple of hours to prove that _yes, indeed, your spouse has a lover_. Or even the minor white collar crimes with clients more stingy than you would think of people wearing a three-piece suit.

The most important ingredient of a case with long working hours, as a murder inevitably will end up being, is the emotional investment of the client. And Mr Fell, at least, seems to be invested. Now it is just hoping he is not because he is trying to cover up his sins.

Mr Fell opens the passenger door of the car—the sound brings Crowley back from his thoughts.

Crowley slips in the back quickly, taking a moment to look at the agent driving: young, overworked judging by the bruises under his eyes, and harried.

“Thank you, sir,” the agent is saying to Mr Fell. “We ought to be back as quickly as possible. I am still not sure—“

“My lawyer will arrive not too long after we return and clear it all up with your superiors,” Mr Fell interrupts— not impolitely, just with a quiet certainty that seems to calm the young officer a fraction.

Crowley personally doubts the reality of Mr Fell’s promise. He wonders if Mr Fell truly believes that he can hire a private detective without drawing the ire of the force. The rich have thought stranger things to be possible, Crowley supposes. If he’s lying, however, then he’s proven himself to be good at the art. Interesting. Investigations are easier when the people involved portray their truths in their brows and eyes, if not in their clumsy words, but Crowley likes a challenge.

“Alright then, sir.” The officer says and begins to drive. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, falling onto Crowley’s figure. “And apologies for not introducing myself. I’m officer Pulsifer, detective in training. You are—“

“Anthony J Crowley, private detective,” Crowley says, with a sly smile. “I assume you know of my reputation.”

“Yes, sir,” Pulsifer says, “I’ve read the articles on the Pen-diamond case, and of course the disappearance of Kelly Donovan. Your work is highly inspiring, sir.”

Ah. A fan in cop’s clothing. Crowley suddenly knows why Mr Fell was able to take such unorthodox steps.

“You flatter me,” Crowley says, “it is rare to hear such positivity from men of your… kind.”

Pulsifer looks away, but his shoulders straighten as if to bolster himself. “Your methods are effective, sir. The Mummy of New Jersey, for example.”

Crowley barks a laugh and says, “Oh that one, that’s been a while.” He shakes his head, chuckeling. “Don’t let your superiors hear you say anything of the sort in the future, Pulsifer, if you want to make Detective one day.”

Pulsifer seems unable to find a response and the drive continues in silence— or at least, verbally so. Mr Fell seems unable to sit still, wiggling in his seat and tugging at his sleeves. Occasionally his eyes flicker to the mirror, and catches Crowley’s gaze only to look away again when caught. Crowley doesn’t hide his staring. He’s supposed to solve a case after all, and Mr Fell is one half of the puzzle.

After one too many glances, Mr Fell’s eyes narrow at him, lined with suspicion. Crowley raises his eyebrows in question. If Mr Fell is regretting his choice already, he much rather have it out now, saving him another altercation with the Detective of the week.

They hold eye contact for a moment, and then Mr Fell harrumphs under his breath, shaking his head a little, and begins to stare out of the window with intense concentration. Crowley doesn’t follow his lead, and continues looking at Mr Fell with the same intensity, as if he could tease out the mysteries just by watching. He doesn’t come up with anything conclusive, and yet he cannot drag his eyes away.

The rest of the travel proceeds in much the same fashion—Crowley looking, and Mr Fell quite purposefully not looking back. Neither of them are willing to budge first.

“Sirs?” says Pulsifer, hesitantly. “We’ve arrived.”

The car has stopped driving. God knows how long they’ve sat there.

“Ah, thank you Pulsifer,” says Mr Fell smoothly. “Your service was most appreciated.” He leans over to shake the agent’s hand, and steps out of the car.

In doing so, Crowley is finally released. A huff of breath escapes him, and he pushes the door open with a deviant click. Once outside, thick raindrops fall onto his brimmed hat. He imagines taking it off and letting the water wash out his strange thoughts, but he casts that idiotic idea aside as well.

“Mr Crowley?”

Mr Fell is looking at him, his head tilted to the side. “Are you coming?”

The question pushes Crowley back into his surroundings and he realises that the rumble of noise is more than the rain: it is a crowd of people. About three dozen onlookers form a half circle around the front of a building— the sign above is only barely visible between their battered umbrellas. Some have grabbed barrels and boxes to stand upon and get a better view.

They’re at Garden Street, his mind provides belatedly. He’d subconsciously recognized the tell tale Dumbbell tenement buildings of the East Side, and the vague smell of the docks being brought by the wind. A strange place to open a bookshop, and even a stranger place to live for a man like Mr Fell. He sticks out as much as his shop does: the rows of tenement apartments suddenly broken up by one large family sized, three story home. He can just see a tree peeking behind the building, meaning there is some sort of garden behind it as well.

Crowley has the vague sense that if the body had been found in any other building on the same street, it wouldn’t nearly have pulled in the same crowd.

“It has become quite the spectacle,” Mr Fell says with a sigh. “The body has already been carried off. I’m not sure why they linger yet.”

“Tragedy attracts, Mr Fell,” Crowley says, omitting ‘certainly when it occurs in conjunction to people like you’, as offending his client at this juncture would not be beneficial. Instead he says, “You must know that, or all the books you sell are children’s tales.”

“Fictional tragedy is quite a different thing.” Mr Fell huffs. “Haven’t we seen enough of it in the real world? I do not understand why—“ he trails off. “Well, no matter. Maybe this is a tragedy that can be solved. I just wish they would have some respect for those who have left us.”

“Don’t condemn the people for their curiosity. Now, you plan to sneak me in?”

Mr Fell’s eyes widen. “Sneak you in?”

“If you haven’t heard, the police do not appreciate me stepping in on their territory. What do you propose?”

“I am going to _ask_ , Mr Crowley,” Mr Fell says and promptly walks towards the shop.

Pulsifer had already started to shoulder-tap his way through the gathering, but his progress is incremental. Mr Fell only has to clear his throat and the crowd parts like the sea before Moses. Crowley falls into step behind him, as the people close ranks once they pass.

A hush goes over them as the source of their gossip enters their vicinity. Only a few watch with suspicion— at least, few look with suspicion at Mr Fell. For Crowley, of course, suspicion combined with intrigue is predetermined. Some gasp and whisper ‘The Devil is here’. But the man implicated with murder is welcomed with a hint of relief. “I told you he wouldn’t have left for London,” someone murmurs, though the anonymous voice is shushed quickly.

Mr Fell stands before the shop with his hands clasped behind his back, smiles a sunlight smile at them, and wishes them a good evening.

At that, the crowd slowly begins to disperse.

Crowley does a splendid job not gaping at him.

“And now, we will ask the officers to let you aid in the investigation,” Mr Fell says brightly.

In the moment, Crowley cannot help but believe that if Mr Fell wanted anything, the universe would make it happen.

— — — — — — — —

And it does.

The traditional “ _What is the meaning of this?!”_ when Crowley shows up near New York’s finest is smoothly transitioned to a “Just stay out of our way,” as Mr Fell manages to convince the detective that it is no issue for Crowley to be here. He enacts a politeness infused verbal sleight of hand involving concerned looks, earnest eyes, and some kind of high society magic.

Because, as Mr Fell explains, they have taken away the body, after all. They were even already starting to wrap up for the night! So there shouldn’t be any harm in a second pair of eyes. A guest couldn’t mess up a crime scene that was about to be reopened anyway. And besides, the best agents of New York are so skilled that they surely couldn’t have missed anything important. This is merely a precaution to make doubly sure even the little details are in order, don’t you think so Detective?

“Everything is in order. We don’t miss things, Mr Fell,” Detective Mulligan grinds out. “You’ll see. You’re wasting your money on that slicker. If you are as innocent as you claim, you should trust us to handle it.”

“I do so, Detective Mulligan, but you must agree that Mr Crowley has extensive knowledge about… the darker side of this fine city. If my suspicions are correct, then his aid could be a boon to all of us. You must have heard of the recent burglaries. There is trouble breeding in this area, and according to the papers, the officers have had difficulty finding leads. I only wished to provide aid, Detective. I know that taking on consultants is outside of your budget, but it is within mine.”

Crowley hides a smile with his hand. Well well, that answers why Mr Fell approached him. Perhaps his client has a theory of his own.

Detective Mulligan grunts and then throws a glare at Crowley. “We’ve searched the place top to bottom, but if there is anything you learn, you come to me. You hear, son?”

“Of course, sir, right away sir,” Crowley says mockingly, and salutes. “I’m always prepared to aid the valiant warriors of justice.”

Detective Mulligan glares some more. Mr Fell sniffs disapprovingly. Crowley grins at them both.

This is going to be delightful.

Mr Fell and Mulligan continue to speak— though it is not much of a conversation, and more Mr Fell attempting to ask questions on the investigation and receiving only grunts and huffs in return. Crowley, who has prior experience with the detective, knows to ask the crime scene these inquiries instead. A wall has much more to say than Mulligan in his most verbose of moods.

The bookshop is very much a bookshop: tomes of all shapes and sizes line the walls, and bookcases form a small maze, only broken up by a circular space in the middle of the room, the wooden floorboards lovingly engraved with bohemian looking patterning. The shop is cosy, if dusty, and clearly beloved by its owner, but the totality of the decoration isn’t to Crowley’s interest. Though later those details might become of import, as of now, his focus is the entrance space right before the door, where a large gold and red carpet not only welcomes new clients into the shop, but has welcomed Mr Jones into the afterlife. The carpet is drenched in blood: a large stain about one third of the carpet marrs its graceful weave.

Crowley clears his throat. “Mr Fell?”

“Yes?”

Mr Fell turns away from Detective Mulligan, at full attention.

Detective Mulligan glares behind him.

“As you said, the officers have been very… expedient in their process, so I cannot inspect the body myself. But if you won’t mind, could you describe, as detailed as possible, what the body looked like when you found it?”

Mr Fell goes a little pale and swallows hard.

Crowley keeps his voice calm and neutral. “Did he lay on his stomach, or on his back? Was his head towards the door? Did you see any obvious wounds?”

“I—Uhm,” Mr Fell says, wringing his hands together nervously. His eyes take on a bit of a glazed effect, as if he’s looking deep into himself as seeing what is before him. “He was on his stomach and—yes, towards the door. As if he was leaving. His wounds were—on his back. It was, there was so much blood. His coat was brown, like a barn owl, but now—it isn't anymore. I knew he was gone.”

“Did you see what kind of wounds he suffered?”

“No, I—I’m not sure. I didn’t come closer. I panicked.”

“Did anyone else see the body up close?”

Mr Fell’s eyes flicker to the Detective, and then to Officer Pulsifer. “The police, of course, maybe a few other people as well. I’d left the door open, some of the youths were walking in.” Mr Fell’s lips twist with disapproval. “Curious little buggers.”

Crowley turns to Pulsifer. “Any specifics of the wounds that you saw?”

Pulsifer straightens to attention. “He appeared to be stabbed many times, sir. We believe he--

“Officer.” Detective Mulligan’s voice interrupts Pulsifer with force. “The details of the case shall not be shared with outside parties unless I say so.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry sir.”

“Mr Fell, where are your business records?”

“In the office, but shouldn’t you wait on my Lawyer until--”

“If you are cooperative, and give me permission now, we all do not have to work through the night. If you are innocent as you claim, there is no harm in it. I only want to ensure there are no financial motives to this crime.”

Mr Fell presses his lips together, but at length he sighs. “Oh well. Have at it. My office is the second door to the right.”

Detective Mulligan huffs. “Officer, you keep an eye on the Devil. If I come to find items missing, your head will roll.”

“Yes, sir.” Officer Pulsifer replies.

Before Mulligan steps through the aforementioned office door he stills and turns again. “And, stay away from the negatives. We do not want another Powell situation.”

“Yes, sir.” Officer Pulsifer repeats, flushing, and taking shuffling a little further from the camera laid to rest on a table off to the side.

Crowley becomes aware of a shadow on his six. He sighs and attempts to focus once more. But there is another set of footsteps behind him, and Mr Fell joins him by his side, bouncing on his heels and his hands clasped together. He is looking at the blood with wide eyes of sadness.

Crowley suppresses a sigh, knowing his questions will likely exacerbate the emotions. One of the reasons why he prefers cold cases is that when he speaks to people, the balm of time makes them significantly less… fragile.

He takes his detective journal out of his pocket and branishes a pencil, writing down the date and time in the corner. He then clears his throat and schools his face into one of sympathy— but not too much. His expression must be cool and calm, to convince the client that they have nothing to worry about: he has it under control.

“If you will pardon me, but I have to ask. Who was the victim?”

“Hmm? Oh— Yes, you are on the case, I see, that is right.” Mr Fell shakes himself a little bit, and drags his gaze away from the carpet. “Mr Jones— Greg Jones if I’m not mistaken. Something with a G in any case. A very pleasant fellow. I am terribly sorry to see him gone, and in such a way too. It is unbearable to think about.”

“How did you know him?”

“He was a patron of the store. He came in for the first time, what would it be, eight months ago? To get a book for his oldest daughter’s birthday, I believe. I should have the record somewhere.” Mr Fell’s eyes flicker to the side, presumably where those records reside in the office. Crowley makes a note of it.

Mr Fell continues, “He returned the very next day, to my great surprise, as I do not have much of a children’s section, so I had sent him along with a collection of Greek myths. But apparently the young of today have a fascination with the gory, so the book was well received. His daughter’s approval inspired him to explore my collection for himself, and became an avid collector in a scant few weeks. He was one of those rare patrons I could recommend anything to and he would enjoy it thoroughly. Enthusiastic, very much so, though a little uninformed at times.”

Mr Fell pauses, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips. “He once asked me for the original print of Gilgamesh, and I had to explain to him that this shop does not carry any stone tablets, but I could order the oldest translation I could find on paper.” He chuckles a little, shaking his head, but then trails off with a soft sigh. “He was a good man. He did not deserve this.”

“My condolences,” Crowley says, a little distractedly. Enthusiastic, he was? Hmm. “He had a daughter, then, any more relatives?”

Mr Fell’s eyes widen and he slaps his hand over his mouth, anguish coming over his features. “Oh god, the children! His wife! Have they been informed?”

Crowley redirects his attention to Pulsifer, who is very obviously not trying to get caught eavesdropping. “Have they?”

“Yes, sir. An officer has been sent to tell the family the tragic news.”

“How did they respond?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir, I wasn't there.”

“Pity.”

Mr Fell makes an affronted sound. “Mr Crowley, do you consider the sensitivity of their situation before you prod your nose into private matters? To hear such news as that, it is not to be witnessed by strangers.”

“Prodding my nose into all kinds of matters is in fact my business, Mr Fell. If you are innocent, as you say, would not the next logical suspect be someone close to him, within the family perhaps?”

“You do not mean to accuse the wife?”

“I do not accuse anyone without the evidence, Mr Fell, evidence I cannot have if I do not ‘prod’. The response of the wife is important: she might be aware if her husband thought he was in danger. He might have acted nervous or paranoid in her presence. She might even suspect a cause, or be one herself. Gambling debts, enemies in business, spousal conflict, family tensions. All private matters are of much interest if you wish to remain a free man.”

Mr Fell’s expression of impropriety lessens in gradients as common sense falls onto his shoulders, hunching them with its weight. “This is all just truly horrid, but you are right. I’m not aware of any enemies or nefarity within Mr Jones’ life. He works on Wall Street so there is money to his name. But not so much as to inspire such an act, I would assume. He was an accountant in one of the high offices. He rarely entered the stock market itself. It was much too loud for him, he said.” Mr Fell shakes his head. “I can’t see how such a timid and sweet fellow could have invited his own murder. He does not seem the type to involve himself with things of that nature.”

“You never know someone as well as you think,” Crowley says. “We all have secrets.”

“Secrets dark enough to be killed for?”

“That is exactly what we are going to find out.”

Crowley leaves Mr Fell with a perturbed expression on his face. He is able to take down some details of the scene before another officer bounds down the stairs. Subtlety is truly not their strong suit.

“Nothing much changed sir,” the officer hollers towards Mulligan, who peeks out of the office with a binder in his hands. “Though the new window has been put in, looks like they’re about to start painting. Other than that, same as a fortnight ago. Bit more dusty.”

“No sign of disturbance?”

“Not that I could find sir, but it is very dark up there and a flashlight can only do so much. There is no electric light installed.”

“What happened a fortnight ago?” Crowley asks. The officer seems about to answer in pure reflex, but a glare from Mulligan silences him.

“A burglary,” Mister Fell says, completely impervious to Mulligans’ now redirected glare. “Someone broke into my home.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Through the second floor window?”

“Yes, climbed in with ladders and tossed the place.” Mr Fell huffs. “It was only luck that saved me. I was away for a family dinner that had run late, so I stayed over for the night, only to return to find my home in ravages!”

“What was stol—”

Mulligan steps in with a grunt and says, “You can continue on your own time, Mr Crowley. We are busy. Now, Mr Fell, you must delay the construction of your room for the rest of the week, so a team can return in the morning and search with light.”

“Oh,” Mr Fell says, lips falling into a pout. “I have been waiting for days now and—“ He stills abruptly, a blush blooming on his cheeks. “I’m terribly sorry. Of course I shall delay, a murder has occured! It is just that I had planned to move back home again this weekend, and for a moment I forgot that— You must pardon me for my momentary crassness, the reconstruction has been one of the most frustrating experiences in my life till thus far— though I suppose I should not complain. Mr Jones’ fate is so much—“

Mulligan interrupts him gruffly. “Thank you for your consideration, Mr Fell.” He lumbers up to the table, letting the binder fall heavily on the oakwood. “Now, is this the order?”

“The order?” Mr Fell carefully avoids the carpet to come towards Mulligan. “Oh yes, the order. Indeed. I tried to cancel the--”

Crowley lets the conversation become more like a radio play in the background, tuned down as to barely hear the words. He’ll have time plenty to ask Mr Fell about his business practices, but his time on the crime scene is limited. Certainly in this state. He assumes Mr Fell is not going to keep the carpet for long, judging his pale complexion every time he looks at it.

He walks around the carpet. There are scuffs on the floor, and part of the carpet is bunged up like someone slipped on the corner, but there is little he can do with it, as it just as well could have been one of the many people stomping all over the scene.

But there is something about the stain that tugs at Crowley’s attention. It’s a warped oval, approximately the size of a small man all on its own. With his magnifying glass, Crowley tries to find more stains in the red edge. It is a troublesome endeavor in the low light, but Crowley finds no evidence of discoloration. He hums to himself and then tilts his head up. The ceiling is pristine. The floor around the carpet is also spotless; even if the blood was displaced by people walking, there at least would be smears left behind.

Crowley clears his throat and asks out loud, “Where is the blood?”

Mr Fell and Mulligan snap into silence.

Crowley turns to them, revels in their respective confusion, and raises an eyebrow.

“Ehm, sir,” Pulsifer pipes up, reluctantly. “The blood is on the carpet.”

Crowley only just succes in swallowing a laugh. “Thank you, officer. You are not, wrong, per se. But where is the rest of it? The stain is large, but it is only one. If the victim was stabbed multiple times, as you said, wouldn’t there be a spray, as well as a stain?”

Pulsifier and Mulligan respond in exact opposite manners: the first gapes in obvious revelation, whereas the other locks his jaw and crosses his arms in stubborn denial.

“The ceilings are high, Mr Crowley,” Mulligan grinds out.

“Excellent observation. Maybe the act was not done in an arch.” Crowley pauses to mimic the movement, “but rather in straight lines. Which would be a good theory, only that then there would be variations in the blood stain, and there still should have been more on the floor. Mr Jones would be hit from behind, but it would not kill him instantly, he would move, kneel. The subsequent stabbings would be from different angles. But the stain is uniform, as if it happened all at once.”

Pulsifier nods along with wide eyes. “So what if he was not? What if he had been pushed to the floor first?”

Crowley tilts his head. “Good idea, Officer. That would be more consistent. The perpetrator would stand over the victim, and be stabbing downwards. His wounds would be directly bleeding onto the carpet, slowly and uniformly enlarging the circle. Though he would need to have not been moving during the attack. There are no signs of him crawling to get away.”

“So he was hit on the head first, then stabbed,” Detective Mulligan says gruffly.

“Was there signs of a head wound?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

Crowley looks at Pulsifer, who is very much avoiding his gaze, and then at Mr Fell, who is looking green around the gills.

Detective Mulligan closes the binder with a defiant slam. “We are done here. All that is left is for you to come with us and to answer some questions at the precinct.”

“Is that necessary to do now?”

Mulligan ignores his protests in his customary brutishness and starts to nudge Mr Fell towards the door, hand almost closing around his elbow.

“It is almost past 1 o’clock,” Mr Fell adds, flustered. “Surely this can wait.”

Crowley is about to step in— stupidly so, he’s treading on thin ice, but there is something about the way Mr Fell’s eyes widen that has Crowley unable to stand by and do nothing. But he is saved by the arrival of a man, busting through the doorway.

“Hold on a minute!” he says loudly. “Are you arresting my client?”

“Sir! Watch out! The blood!”

Pulsifer’s warning comes only just on time as the man redirects his feet from landing in the middle of the stain, to only the edge of it. Crowley flinches inwardly as he leaves a dirty footprint. But the commotion has drawn Mulligan away from Mr Fell, who cleverly takes the opportunity to slink away from the entrance, coming to surreptitiously hide behind Crowley instead. Crowley writes down ‘improvised shield’ in his notes for later charging fees.

“What is the meaning of this!” Mulligan shouts. “You are trespassing a crime scene!”

Crowley snorts quietly— it is interesting to be on the other side of this for once.

“I assure you, I have more legal rights to be here than you can imagine,” the man says. He puts his leather briefcase on the floor and takes off his hat, revealing a middle aged man in a suit that has seen better days, and a beard that has never seen a proper barber. His eyes are bright, though, and his bushy eyebrows are raised in a manner that betrays utter confidence. “Now, do you have sufficient evidence for an arrest?”

Mulligan, in the face of the second smooth talker of the evening, forgets to protest the stranger’s presence and instead goes on the defensive. It is a mistake. “It is the first few hours of the investi—“

“Is my client a suspect?”

“Naturally, he is. A body was found in his establishment.”

“And who called the police to report it? My client! Have you any cause to contain my client until his questioning, on account of a notion that he will attempt to flee, or otherwise refuse to cooperate?”

Client, ah—The lawyer. The cast of characters is complete.

Pulsifer pipes up before Mulligan can. “So far, Mr Fell has been nothing but helpful.”

The lawyer claps his hands together, victorious. “There you have it. There is no reason not to let the questioning be on the morrow, fresh and early. It is preposterous to think that at a time such as this, the truth would be interpreted in its full honesty.”

“Mister—

“Shadwell, Witch hunter by night, Lawyer by day. Though I do not charge over-hours in any direction.”

He holds out a hand. No one takes it, but it does not fluster him in the slightest.

Crowley turns to raise an eyebrow at Mr Fell, who seems to be watching the proceedings with amusement, judging by his badly repressed smile.

“Mister Shadwell,” Mulligan says through gritted teeth. “Mr Fell would only be asked preliminary questions…”

“Mr Fell, at this moment, is not under arrest, and has no need to be contained, and has promised to be cooperative and come tomorrow morning….” Shadwell trails off expectantly.

“I promise to be co-operative and I shall come tomorrow morning,” Mr Fell says immediately with fervour, and then adds slightly too innocently, “I can bring scones?”

Shadwell continues with a smile, “So therefore we are going to leave this discussion here. It was very good making your acquaintance, Detective.”

Mulligan makes a grunting noise that would be more appropriate in a zoo than in a bookshop-turned-crime-scene, and stomps out without another word.

Pulsifer, who seems to have realised that he did not do his boss any favours, hesitates a beat too long before following him out, allowing Shadwell to zero in on him.

“Now, you there,” he says. “Thank you for showing your superior that my client is nothing but trustworthy—“

Pulsifer swallows hard. “I don’t think I said—“

Shadwell ignores him entirely. “You have done me a great favour, and in return I will teach you some tricks of the trade. You want to become a detective, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I have participated in many investigations in my day, both in the pursuit of murderers of the human persuasion, and otherwise.”

“Otherwise, sir?”

“Monsters, cursed children, witches, the like. Did you know that witches can be recognized by the presence of a third nipple? And that is not all, mobsters too, have a proclivity towards deviant nipplage. I think it is due to their fundamental evilness, as creatures of the dark their bodies change to meet it. If you learn how to look, they cannot hide their horrid nature from you!”

Crowley clears his throat. “Don’t fill what little brain the city has allocated to the solving of crime with that kind of drivel. Disregard it immediately, Pulsifer.”

“Do not listen to the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, good officer, what he says has no credit whatsoever. This is why I advised you against involving him, Mr Fell! He does not even know about the nipples.”

Pulsifer swallows, tugging at his uniform collar as if he’s feeling faint, and takes a step of retreat towards the door. “Thank you, for the advice, good sirs, but I must be going, Mulligan will expect me to do the paperwork for today so—” And then he quickly slips out of the door.

Crowley snorts, that might just be the cleverest thing the officer has said so far. Maybe not all hope is lost for him just yet.

While Shadwell seethes to Mr Fell about Devils and Witches and other such nonsense, Crowley reviews his meager notes. The first hours of a sudden investigation are never to his satisfaction. It has been a while since he’s done an investigation on this scale, but even if it wasn’t as intriguing as it is turning out to be —even if Mr Fell himself hadn’t been like he was —Crowley has no choice but to jump on the opportunity.

“I know, Mr Shadwell, but I do believe this is best for the case,” Mr Fell is saying, his sentence tumbling into a deep yawn. “Assuming, of course, that Mr Crowley wishes to continue.”

“Yes, I’ll take the case.”

The relief on Mr Fell’s face is almost too bright to look at. “Oh, thank you. You have proven yourself very astute, what with all the blood and stains and such. I assume I’ll have to sign something.”

“Indeed.”

Crowley takes out the paperwork and makes a few adjustments now he knows more about the case. When he is done he gives it to Mr Fell, who promptly gives it to Shadwell to read over.

“Why 70% upfront?” he asks, with narrowed eyes.

“Standard procedure with framing cases. If I end up discovering that your client, in fact, is trying to use my labour to cover it all up, I shall give my information to the authorities. With this measure, I won’t be completely without wages, as the officers will not reward me under any circumstances.”

They work out the details for another 20 minutes, with Mr Fell occasionally yawning in the background. Eventually Shadwell reaches over to shake his hand and the deal is done.

Mr Fell gives him the money without complaint, only asking “Are you safe with all that on you?”

Crowley merely smiles, showing his teeth. “I can protect myself.”

“Oh, of course,” Mr Fell says, eyes flickering away. “You must be—You do have—in your occupation.”

“Indeed.”

Mr Fell yawns again.

Where Crowley would rather stay and ask more questions, a small part of him twists at the sight—his eyes are getting puffy, and he’s starting to tremble a little bit. So without his explicit permission, his mouth begins to speak, “ I have all I can glean from the scene without light, and it is getting quite late. I propose to make an appointment for tomorrow. After your talk with the officers?”

“That would be perfect,” Mr Fell says, brightening up a little. “At what time would be preferable?”

“Interviews such as these tend to be long winded, so I would say late afternoon, to be certain.”

“Alright. Is there some place with passable tea where we could meet? That way if I am done earlier, I could wait for you in comfort.”

“Finnegan's should be agreeable. Just on the corner of Washington Square Park.”

“I shall be there.”

Crowley snaps his journal closed. He takes one look around the room, and then another longer look at his client, who flusters a little under his gaze.

“Well, then,” Mr Fell says. “Until tomorrow.”

Crowley sends him a sideways smile, and tips his hat. “Indeed.”

He carefully steps around the stain and exits the bookshop. Mr Shadwell’s continued complaints following in his wake only to be cut off when the heavy door falls closed.

Crowley sighs. It's still drizzling and the air is cold enough for his breath to puff out in gentle clouds of mist. Even with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets —the folded up bills a comforting sensation between his fingers —the walk home is not, say, pleasant but necessary nonetheless. He goes over the events of the evening, organizing his impressions into a new web of clues. He has the name of the victim, at least, which is where he would normally start. He knows he will not. He could blame the alleged framing for his unorthodox approach— but he can’t deny that there is a more subjective affliction pushing him to start his path with someone else.

The web grows and grows as the maze of New York expands under Crowley’s feet. Dark alleys and broad streets filled with secrets of one kind or another; a large mirror to the smaller network of this particular case. Relationships, motivations, interests, ambitions, all connected to the death of an alleged good man, in the shop of a presumed other. Crowley lights up a cigar and smiles. Tomorrow will be a day of hunting for knowledge about the man: the centre of the web and the centre of his mind. Curiosity a hungry spider tugging on a singular thread.

Who is Mr Fell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The discord community of this event has been my refuge ever since The Situation began, and I truly am so grateful for their vibes, support, cheering, ect. It's been a rough time for all of us on this planet but each and every one of you made it easier to bare. 
> 
> Thank you to the mods for running this. And thank you to my beta, ScribeofArda, for being able to check last minute additions as I Frantically try to make something worthy. 
> 
> Due to Circumstances in my personal life, I could not pre-write chapters as I had planned. As such, be aware that this is a wip. I've got an outline (it is Long), and the second chapter is about 70% done. But, because I don't have a buffer, I'm not 100% of my update schedule quite yet. I'm hoping to post the next chapter in 2 weeks at the latest. I'm unsure if I'm gonna do a post-as-write thing or gonna try to take a few weeks and churn out some chapters. I have Been Known to go feral and just finish a chapter a week, but that was a while ago and I'm not gonna make promises that are gonna stress me out later. 
> 
> So to end the rambling: I'm gonna try to enjoy myself and be chill. Chapters will come when they come! I usually post in the weekends, so heads up for that :D I'll update yall if a regular posting schedule is on the horizon. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it and please remember to also give love to the art if you plan to comment! Taya deserves all of it.


	2. Cookies and Kindness

Before the postmen of New York have even thought about leaving the warm confines of their beds, Crowley is already up and running about in the cityscape. 

During the night the rain clouds had tumbled their way further inland, taking the morose darkness of the past week with them. The white skies left in their wake do not necessarily speak of a sunny day, but the contrast is so stark you might mistake it as such. 

Crowley uses the early morning hours to act much like a postman himself: sliding various formal requests and bureaucratic forms under the right doors. It would do to have the public records of both Mr Fell and Mr Jones handy, in case the lawyer proves to be stubborn or incompetent, and as such will not provide the goods in a timely manner. 

But as these processes tend to take a century —give or take a decade —Crowley doesn’t waste his time waiting for a response. He sets forth to Greenwich to take a gander for himself. Survey the scene of the drama, so to speak. His first stop is a little bakery off to the corner, for freshly baked bread and freshly cooked gossip, in that order. 

The bakery had set up some tables and chairs now that it was dry out. They’re scattered across the pavement, tables of all shapes and sizes being used by people much the same way. Some scarfed down their food and left, but most lingered for a while, talking to their neighbors and friends as they passed down the street. 

The murder is of course the talk of the day. 

Crowley picks out a little table in the corner, unseen and unremarkable, to catch the valuable crumbs of information the denizens of Greenwich throw about while eating their breakfast. 

The story gets repeated thousands of times, though the characters vary: it was the paperboy, no the milkman, no the steelworker, who saw Mr Fell run out of his shop, pale and shaking, yelling for someone to get the police. Half of them claim to have seen the body themselves. The sheer number of them who say they went inside the shop before the police came makes Crowley’s stomach churn— any footprints he might find later will be utterly useless. 

But, in short, everyone says they know someone who saw something. The whole damn village was involved, if you believe their tales. 

Crowley has heard it all before. He prides himself at being adept at sifting through the dirt of speculation to find some nuggets of truth. 

As he writes out the conversations he overhears, he finds a measure of consistency in the order of the events: 

Mr Fell came to Greenwich late in the evening. He spoke to the paperboy, who had been out playing on the streets, about withholding his papers for another few days. He’d visited the milkman’s apartment to say the same, and told him he was just in town to pick something up at the shop. A steelworker, about to go on his night shift, crossed his path while Mr Fell was opening the door. They had a moment of small talk, before the steelworker left, and Mr Fell opens his door. 

And then he started screaming for help. 

The paperboy and the steelworker were both witness to this, and the milkman was the first of the neighbors to open his door and ask what was happening. 

“He is dead. They killed him. Call the police!” 

Crowley taps his pen against the table. After that moment— Mr Fell yelling for the police, iit becomes harder to seperate rumour from fact. The whole block streamed out of their apartments and onto the streets, bringing with them unreliability and chaos. 

This is no surprise. Crowley is happy enough with the accounts he managed to gather. Mr Fell was lucky, in a sense, that there had still been so many witnesses on the streets. The problem, of course, is that there is no guarantee the police are going to believe any of them. It’s his responsibility, then, to make sure their experiences will not be ignored. There is nothing worse than a botched investigation purely out of ignorance. Someone unwilling to listen to those they deem beneath them. 

There is so much value in observing the people who observed a crime— or not even the crime itself, but the people involved. In a neighborhood like this, packed up together like sardines, there are spies behind every window. They keep track of each other, even if they don’t know each other well. 

And as Crowley listens, he notices that there is something peculiar to the way the denizens speak of Mr Fell. 

They call him the Angel of Greenwich. 

Not all of them. Not all the time. But the nickname—or is it a title? —comes up occasionally, and it starts Crowley every time it does. 

Sometimes it is in jest: “You ever thought something like this would happen to the Angel?” or “I guess, he might not be such an angel after all”. But mostly it seems like a habit, as easily understood as saying “Mr Fell.” 

Even the local newspaper takes on the monniker, blasting _The Angel Of Greenwich In A Hell Of His Own: Body Found In Mr Fell’s Book Shop, No Arrest Made As Of Now._

Another thing of note is that all of them, even the ones who seem to joke otherwise, believe Mr Fell is innocent. No one even tried to suggest the contrary. 

Crowley looks for nervosity, any indication that they might believe they’re being watched, but there is no sign of it. Not that Mr Fell seemed like the kind of fellow who is able to silence whole village through fear, but it never hurts to be overly paranoid in these cases. In fact, the more Mr Fell is called an angel, a bitter part of Crowley’s mind wants to dig deeper for a hidden nefarity to the man. He’s seen too many good men fall to the surprise of all who knew them. All their virtue had merely been the false mask they projected onto the world. Nobody's faultless. Only lies are perfect. 

It is easier to contemplate that possibility while not in his presence. The moment Crowley’s mind travels back to yesterday’s events, the suspicions start to slip helplessly—his eyes, his smile, his quiet confidence and tartan-hidden strength. Crowley shakes his head, trying to banish the thought and center himself. What matters is the judgements of the people, and why they’re making them. 

The answer seems to be kindness. 

As he listens, Crowley discovers the burglary was not an isolated incident. Over the months, the Village has camped with various kinds of attacks and thefts. The police have not seemed eager to do anything about it, blaming the speakeasies for causing drunks and criminals to be attracted to the area. 

The only person who seemed to have been helping matters was in fact Mr Fell himself. 

“Woulda lost my shop, if not for the angel, eh,” one middle aged man had said, while picking up his bagel. “Fuckers destroyed the storefront, trashed the place. Didn’t have the credit for a loan to pay for the repairs, but then Vinny came by, smug as you please, and started fixing it. I told him to stop cause I couldn’t pay for it and I know with his little girl he needs the money as much as anyone. But he laughed and said an ‘anonymous benefactor’ had given him all he needed.”

The baker, a stout irish woman with a sly grin, had winked at him and said, “Ah yes, the mysterious benefactor. Suppose we will never know who it is.” 

“Our angel of Greenwich.” 

“Sure is.” 

Story after story showed acts of subtle kindness; the utility of wealth in ways that was not only completely lacking in any desire for attention or credit that usually came with the rich, but was also done with an efficiency that showed Mr Fell’s involvement and care of the people in the neighborhood. Individuals were brought a deft solution to their exact problems, as opposed to grand gestures ignorantly assuming what the destitute were needy for. 

It reminded Crowley of the way Mr Fell had spoken to Mulligan. He had seemed so foolishly self-assured that the police would simply do what he requested, that Crowley had almost missed the fact that Mr Fell hadn’t just made a demand: he had convinced the detective. Somehow he had said the precise words, pushed the right buttons, to get his way. It belies a swifth capacity for character-reading and insight, useful not only to manipulate wayward officers but also to convince those with pride to take a kindness when it is offered. 

By the time the breakfast rush has ended, Crowley almost finds himself converted to the cult of the Angel of Greenwich. The gratitude in their voices is infectious. He understands now why no one believes Mr Fell to be guilty. He hopes, for them, that their faith is warranted. 

He calmly and precisely doesn’t allow himself to hope for the same—mostly because an unreasonably large part of him desperately wants to believe it. 

It would be nice, every once in a while, if there was no darkness to find. That maybe, this time, the good, the true and the selfless are not impossible companions. Crowley is so used to stumbling over bones that he can’t even imagine what it would feel like to open a closet without skeletons inside.

Crowley is about to move on when another conversation catches his attention. 

A woman in her late twenties comes to the counter with a flush to her face and speaks only just loud enough for Crowley to hear. “I know I promised to pay up today, but the repairs still aren’t done so I’ve been one house down and Rick needed the rest to get gas so—-” 

The baker interrupts her with a hand on her arm. “Poor dear. But didn’t Mr Fell promise to pay the wages regardless? I don’t mean to question what you’re sayin, but I have to check it, to make sure, you know?”

“Yes, yes, he did. Which is why I thought I’d have it today. He told me he would give me the check this morning, but when I went to the shop he wasn’t there. Maybe with everything happening, it slipped his mind, but as is, I don’t have the money, Maeve. I’m sorry.” 

Crowley speaks up before he can stop himself. “Mr Fell is at the police station for questioning.” 

The woman turns to him. Her blond hair is pinned on her head in a graceful manner and her clothes are clean despite the occasional stitch and patch, but the lines under her eyes show a time of hardship. 

“Oh, of course,” the woman says, realisation coming over her face, combined with a hint of relief. She’d been worried, then, that Mr Fell had gone back on his promise. “Thank you for letting me know, Mr—” 

“Crowley, Private Detective,” he says, and stands. “Mr Fell is my client.”

“Ah,” the woman says and holds out a hand to shake. “Anne Wakerly, I occasionally come to clean up for Mr Fell, as he lives on his own. He’s been kind enough to keep me on despite not having lived at his home for the last couple of weeks. He’s a good man. You’re helping to prove his innocence?” 

“Yes,” Crowley says, and he mostly means it. “And he also told me to communicate his absence to those who were unaware. The situation is an unorthodox one, to say the least.” 

“Indeed,” the baker —Maeve —says, coming around the counter to join the conversation. “Good to hear you’re in his corner, Mr Crowley. I’ve heard good things about your doings, unlike the idiots in blue. Maeve McCollins is the name. Let me know if you need anything.” 

“I’m still remembered, then,” Crowley says, trying not to seem too satisfied about it. “Has been a while since a case of mine hit the papers.” 

“But when it did, it was memorable. That journalist, the beazel, what's her name—don’t remember. The one that made the write up on Kelly Donovan.” 

“Ah, Miss Device. She is an… acquaintance.” 

“Iron girl, that one. Anyway, I got that article on the wall. Is nice to see a good ending every once in a while, hmm? I just didn’t recognize you without the hat.” 

“A familiar problem I intend to maintain. It does not do good for business if everyone knows my colours on sight. Undercover work would be virtually impossible.” 

Anne nods. “I can see how fame could be counterproductive in your position. We will be glad to keep your presence a secret, if need be. I am ever so glad you’re the one helping Mr Fell. And thank you for letting me know about his preoccupation, I should’ve thought it up myself but I was quite distracted this morning.” 

Maeve turns to Anne with a compassionate smile. “ I’m sure Mr Fell hasn’t forgotten about his promise. He’s not like that, he is a good one.” 

Anne takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I am sorry, though, for breaking that promise to you.” 

Crowley watches between them in silence, calculating. He’d rather not put himself in a spot like this—he doesn’t know how Mr Fell would respond at all. But there is something about his kindness that has people in his thrall, and if there is a way to utilise that effect for the good of the case, Crowley has to try. 

So Crowley sighs internally and goes about doing something nice for the first time in a long while. 

“You know what, I’ll make the payment.”

Both women turn to him with eyebrows raised. Anne is already shaking her head. 

“No sir, that is much too sweet of you but I cannot impose in such a manner.” 

Crowley takes out his wallet and gives her a hint of a smile. He can handle it, what with the down payment. Though most of that would’ve been going to the rent, and his own fair number of wayward merchants and shop tenants expectantly waiting across the city. But— “I work for Mr Fell, so I can inform him of the situation and he will surely cover my cost. I don’t mind being an intermediary.”

“Oh, well then. I suppose,” Anne says, looking sideways at Maeve as if asking for permission. “But do tell me if Mr Fell hasn’t given you the money, because then I do owe it to you to pay you back.” 

Crowley nods and says, lying through his teeth. “I will.” 

He’s not going to beg for it. This is his choice, his bed to make. He’ll have to lay in it, regardless of the consequences—

And maybe a part of him wants them to be more of the dire sort. Just to remind himself that despite Mr Fell’s fantastical legacy, kindness is not rewarded in the realm of the real. 

The money is exchanged, new flour is bought, and small talk is made. Crowley figures it is time to slip away. He wants to do a walk through the neighborhood, explore that empty space behind the lot and see where the burglary had been. 

But before he can, Anne manages to invite him for tea and cookies. Crowley finds himself bustled off back to her home— which, coincidentally, is right next door to the bookshop. By the time Crowley, sacks of flour and sugar piled in his arms, realises that this is where they’re going, he’s convinced himself that this was all part of the plan. 

Anne lives on the ground floor; a small apartment that is made to look immeasurably larger by the fact that it has sunlight streaming into the windows. 

“We were quite lucky, getting this one,” she’s saying, wrist-deep in a large bowl of cookie dough. “Normally the building next door would block out most of it, the alleys are too thin to let in much light. But because Mr Fell, or whoever bought the property beforehand, chose to keep the space empty, we get to see the sun every day.”

A small back door besides the window is held open with a broom, bringing even more light in and giving a view of a small square. In the middle of it stands the apple tree. Humbly sized, but relatively large for an urban grown plant. There are one or two apples still hanging off its branches. 

“What about all that?” Crowley asks, waving a hand towards the square. “Wouldn’t that be Mr Fell’s?” 

“Officially, yes,” Anne says. “But Mr Fell had it opened up and tiled off when he moved here. Said he didn’t have much of a need for a garden. I think he kept a bit, behind the fences, but the rest of it is now for all. It was very generous of him.” 

“Hmm,” Crowley says, and takes a sip of his tea. “Do you mind if I take a quick walk around? I’d planned to take a look at the site of the burglary. See how easy, or not, it would have been to break the window that hight.” 

“Oh, of course not,” Anne says. “Take your tea with you, that’s alright. Just be back before the first batch comes out of the oven.” 

Crowley meanders the little square for a moment. The back of Mr Fell’s building is mostly covered with a tall wooden fence, but standing at the edge of the square he can look over it from a distance and see the second story easily. 

The fence could’ve been climbed, though it seems to be an unnecessary effort. The whole burglary is weighed down with that same judgement: from the choice of the back of the building as opposed to the front, the second level as opposed to the first. 

There is a theft in there that would’ve made much more sense. Crowley might not fancy himself to be a big reader, but he is well aware about the capital value some rare books claim to be worth. It would be to no surprise for such objects to be Mr Fell’s possession. But his bedroom seems like a strange place for it. 

And even if he had kept his most prized objects close, Crowley had seen enough in the shop itself to think a breaking and entering could lead to a lucrative night. Just the tapestries alone— sans blood, of course, must be worth a good amount to the right buyer. 

It is a strange risk to take, clambering up a ladder to a room where it is most likely someone is residing in the night. Either they knew Mr Fell was not home, or they were confident they could control him physically if he were. They might even have intended to. He’ll ask Mr Fell what, if any, the thieves took, but Crowley has a dark premonition that nothing of note was missing.

No. It was a message.

A message that wasn’t received, if the next step became a body in the shop. 

Crowley ponders for a moment. It is risky to assume a connection between two distinct events before having material proof such a connection is valid. But for two breaches of not only Mr Fell’s property but also his safety, within a period of 2 weeks, to have seperate causes and motivations, is relatively unlikely. 

The bulgaries, then. Mr Fell’s was not the only one. The pertinent question now is whether the cause between the events regarding Mr Fell, have a connection to the burglaries as a whole, or did the perpetrators merely use it as cover. 

Crowley spends another few moments staking out the place, estimating measurements and theorizing the minutes away. His notebook is filled to the brim by the time the cookies are out of the oven, and the neighborhood kids descend on the apartment on account of the smell wafting out of the window. 

Crowley sits back, sipping his tea, marveling at everything he’s learned. And he hasn’t even had to break into any government building nor bribe anyone for it. Maybe Mr Fell is right about this nicety shtick. It seems extremely effective in getting what you need. And the slight warmth in his chest has nothing to complain at either. It's probably the tea. 

“Mr Crowley?” 

“Hmm,” Crowley puts down his teacup. “I’m sorry, I was reflecting upon the case.” 

Anne smiles. “You must have a busy mind to keep up with all these clues.”

Crowley makes a sound of agreement and snatches another cookie before they’ve all been taken by the kids. 

“And I might be able to get you another. William?”

One of the boys sits up a little straighter, looking at Anne with a serious attention that is comical on his face. “Yes Missus Anne?”

“Could you bring Mr Crowley to Madam Tracy’s apartment?”

The mention of that name causes Crowley to sit almost as straight as William. As Crowley had overheard in the bakery Madam Tracy had also been victim of a burglary—the 6th in the village —but hers was of special interest as she had been the only one who had seen the perpetrators in light. Her tendency to sleep with candles lit in her room had allowed her to see their faces. Specifically, their expressions of horror when one of the men’s jackets was subsequently lit on fire. The police, according to Anne, hadn’t even asked Madam Tracy what the men had looked like, and Crowley had been eager to rectify their mistake at the earliest opportunity. 

Which seems to be now. The day is going absolutely splendidly. 

“Sure Missus.” William nods sharply and then turns to Crowley to say, “Madam Tracy is me and my dad’s neighbor. Or well, neighbor’s neighbor. Neighbor one time removed. Vinny and Sally are between my room and Madam Tracy’s room, but thats okay, because I still know where it is.” 

“Lead the way,” Crowley says and stands. “Maybe, if you hurry, you can return on time for the next batch.” 

Williams eyes flicker to the oven, and nods again, complatetive. “Takes 8 minutes to walk there.”

“The cookies are not done for another 20 minutes,” Anne informs him. 

The other boys groan in despair, but William smiles excitedly. 

“It is possible then,” he says. “Come sir!”

And off he goes.

Anne gives him a wink as Crowley falls into a quick step behind William. It only takes him a block to give up and start jogging behind the kid. Losing sight of him now would be, though hilarious, also an unnecessary delay to the day. He has another couple of hours before meeting Mr Fell, and he wants to make the most of it. 

“This way, sir!”

William's voice comes out of an alleyway to the right, and Crowley rushes the corner to see him clambering over a 10 foot fence. 

“It’s a shortcut, sir. For the cookies!”

Crowley sighs and shakes his head to himself. To think he wouldn’t have to trespass any private property today. 

“Sir?”

“Coming!”

Crowley rolls up his sleeves, makes sure his head is on securely, and starts climbing the rickety chain link fence. Under the encouragement of William he’s able to crest the top in two high jumps. As he puts his leg over the edge, trying to keep his balance, he can’t help but notice that he’s smiling.

“Good job, sir! Now just don’t twist your ankle when you go down.” 

“Don’t worry. I’m not that old yet,” Crowley says, and takes off his hat. “Catch!”

William springs into motion and grabs the hat out of the air before it can fall on the dirty floor. 

“Good, now move out of the way.”

He does so, and grins up at him. “You can do it sir!”

Crowley laughs, a giddy burst of air out of his chest, and heaves the other leg over. But instead of turning around and climbing down as William had done, he pushes himself up, balancing on the top of the fence, and then he jumps. 

He lands expertly with a roll, managing to avoid the suspicious pools of water in the damp and damaged courtyard. He stands and dusts himself casually, under the awed gaze of William. 

Crowley motions for his hat and William gives it, still gaping. 

“For the cookies,” Crowley says.

A bright smile spreads over William’s face. “For the cookies, sir.”

Together they make it to the apartment in 5 minutes flat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had some stressfull news today so RL is being its usual predictable self. I've found that this work due to its style and nature takes more concentration than other writing projects, so due to the fuckyness of life, this one might be updated less frequently than my other wip. I think its better to take the time for these chapters when I have the focus, rather than be forced to rush them 
> 
> Hopefully all will turn out okay next week, and I'll have more than enough time and focus to work on the following chapters, but in case it turns out to be bad news, I just wanted to give yall a heads up that this is gonna take a bit probably. But thank you for your interest and hopefully you're enjoying it so far.


	3. Asked and Answered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hey! I'm still around, contrary to popular belief ;p 
> 
> Uni has been pretty whelming and I've barely been able to write, so I thought I'd get this shorter chapter out of the way and pray for more wordier times to come soon. Hopefully yall enjoy it still and the next wait won't be as long!

The tenements in which Madam Tracy resides is much the same as the one wherein Crowley had just been consuming freshly baked cookies. The same cramped rooms circling an unreasonably thin air shaft that, allegedly, lowers the various health risks intrinsic to living in buildings like this. 

This particular one one seems to be in a slightly better shape. The doors are well oiled and the walls have a significantly lower amount of mold than usual. This minor, yet curious, phenomenon is explained by William’s running commentary as they pass each apartment. 

“— this is where I live, with my dad. My dad isn’t home right now, even though he is usually free today, but sometimes he suddenly has to work. Maybe someone got sick at the butcher’s shop again. That was why I came to Missus Anne, Dad told me I could have lunch there if he wasn’t back by noon.” 

Crowley gives a noise, listening with half an ear. On the far end of the hall there is a door that is barely recognizable as such: the wood is covered with a garish oriental cloth that moves lightly in the damp breeze. 

But William stops in the middle, and continues his impromptu tour. 

“Oh and here is where Vinny lives, with Sally. Sally also only lives just with her dad just like me. She’s sick with the same thing her mom had but her mom didn’t make it. Doctors say she might be able to survive it but they said that months ago and I still hear her coughing at night sometimes.” 

As if on cue, Crowley hears a quiet cough on the other side of the door, and then a gentle low voice murmuring something. 

“Vinny is home,” William says, victorious. “Maybe you can investigate him as well. He’s the one that fixes up all the windows after the thieves come. He can tell you about how they break em, at least.” 

This does pique Crowley’s interest, and his eyes flicker towards the door on their own accord. There is a small plaque beside the door bell. The usual welcome sign with “Vincent Conniver and Sally Conniver” below it, but there is something else there as well: _Ring the bell for any need of repairs in EL properties within the larger Greenwich Village area._

Hmm. 

“Does he fix just the windows?” Crowley asks William. 

“No, he can fix just about anything! Last week we had a leak in our home and Vinny came to fix it. Dad and he had a bit of a row over it, though. Something about payment, but they made up a few days later so I think it's okay now.”

A concierge then, for the Els. Crowley takes a mental note. He hadn’t known the family had interest in the Village, never mind bought property. They’ve been all over the papers the last couple of years, positioning themselves as the face of the Prohibition movement, using their not inconsiderable financial power and social status to enact even stricter enforcements and harsher punishments for those who dare to even think to drink a sip of an alcoholic beverage. 

Crowley figured them all for attention-seeking bastards. Finally coming out of the shadows after so many years of lingering in the background of New York’s elites, just when the Prohibition law was about to go through. Though their support had been significant, the rock had already been thrown, the bell already swung. Their approval did not sway the jury, as it were, but they sure as hell swooped in just at the right time to claim the credit regardless. 

He’ll have to put in more forms, then. There might be a connection between the Els meddling with the Village, and a recent uptick in speakeasy raids. If anything, he’ll have to let Shadwell know the Els potentially have their fingers in the local police force. They’re well known for twisting the judicial system to their advantage, and though Crowley cannot discern how a bookshop owner’s troubles might fall into their larger visions of eradicating alcohol consumption, but it's better to know beforehand if there is any party who wishes the results of the case fall one way or the other. 

Doubly so if it is an alleged framing. 

Crowley had just about finished that thought when William skips forward and starts knocking enthusiastically on Madam Tracy’s door, the sound slightly muffled by the cloth hanging before it. 

“Madam Tracy! There is a gentleman detective who wishes to speak to you about those thieves who came in the night!” 

His small fists halt in their machine-gun imitation momentarily, allowing for a pause where in Madam Tracy could respond. When she doesn’t within two seconds, William turns to Crowley with a disappointed shrug and says, “Guess she ain’t home.” 

Crowley huffs and says, “We might have to give her a minute to consider the question. Not everyone would like to speak about such experiences to a stranger.” 

Realisation widens Williams eyes comically and he twists around to the door again. “Mr Crowley is not a stranger, Madam Tracy. He is helping Mr Fell!” 

Hmm. Though Anne and Crowley hadn’t exactly been subtle around the table, that information had not been directly stated in front of the children, as far as he can recall. The kid might be cleverer than he lets on. 

There still comes no response, and William knocks again. “It is important, Madam Tracy. I don’t want Mr Fell to go away. What about the lessons?” 

The silence that follows seems to materialize as a weight upon Williams shoulders and he bows under it, a sniffle coming to the fore. His eyes are moist when he looks up again. 

Crowley shifts on his feet, slightly unnerved by the sudden turn to sentimentality from the previously cheery and enthusiastic boy. “I don’t believe that if Madam Tracy does not wish to speak, the case is completely lost. There are always other avenues this early in the investigation.”

“Really?” A measure of hope begins to crawl over Willam’s face, still hesitant to accept it. “But Dad said that maybe Mr Fell wouldn’t be able to teach me letters no more. That something had happened and that the police would maybe come to get him. I had lessons tomorrow, but even if Mr Fell was still there, he said I wasn’t allowed to go. But I am sure its all wrong and if Madam Tracy can tell you about the thieves then maybe the police will go to get them instead and—” 

William cuts off with a hiccup and uses his sleeve to swipe his snotty nose.

If what William says is true, his father might well be the very first person in the Village that implied Mr Fell might be guilty. 

Crowley tries to gather up words of comfort for the child, but knows that bitterness of false hope is much more poisonous than the sting of uncertainty. He’s unsure what to say instead, but is saved when a door creaks open besides them. 

Not Madam Tracy’s, however, but Vincent’s-- the concierge. 

He’s a middle aged man with reddish hair and a scruffy, untrimmed beard. His arms are strong and his eyes seem kind, if tired, and there is a hesitance in his voice that belies a measure of shyness that seems to be strangely juxtaposed with his broad figure. It gives Crowley a strange image of a librarian waking up one day with the body of a lumberjack, still unpracticed in how to manage his large limbs. 

“Excuse me, sir, and William, but I couldn’t help but overhear. Madam Tracy has gone upstate to friends for some sort of gathering, and won’t be back for a couple of days.” 

William’s back straightens and a smile begins to shine on his face. 

“Ah, thank you for letting us know, Mr Conniver” Crowley says. “Do you know by any chance where she resides? The matter is quite pressing and worthy of a telegram.” 

Vincent shakes his head, apologetic. “Just that it's somewhere inland, near a forest I think. She said something about finding the spirits of old.” 

“Illuminating,” Crowley says, with a sigh.

From the little Anne told him of the Madam, Crowley had already suspected her being in some way intrigued by the occult. But between this and the decor of the door, he begins to think there might be a bit more to it. He hopes for one of those snake-oil types who are at least aware that what they sell is a load of bullcrap, as they might be persuaded to speak honestly once convinced Crowley is not going to rush off to the police afterward. There is nothing worse than involving a Seer who truly believes into an investigation, because they might get it into their head that they’re having visions about the case at hand, derailing the proceedings and leading everyone on a wild goose chase. 

On second thought, it might be fruitful to introduce her to the coppers after all; maybe they will be stalled in their progress. 

It is not that Crowley has the arrogance to believe that man knows everything that there is to this world. Science has always been a process of catching up, and what might be seen as the holy truth now will be dashed in less than a decade. But he also believes that there is a place and time for the strange and unexplained, and that time is not in the middle of a murder case, where most -- if not all -- horrors can be explained by simple human greed, selfishness or passion. No ghosts nor devils needed. 

But the point remains that Madam Tracy will not be available for questioning. Crowley can only hope she comes back before the law takes any rash action. 

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says again. “Wish I could be more helpful.” 

A thought comes to Crowley. “Actually, you might. You’re the one going around fixing what the criminals break, are you not?” 

Vincent straightens and nods. “Yes, you could say that.” 

“Then you might know even more about the culprits than Madam Tracy, for all she’s seen their faces.”

“How so?”

Crowley brandishes his notebook and smiles slightly. “All thieves have a way of working. Every crime is a series of choices, you see. Which ones they make illustrates their experience, intent and habits.” 

Vincent tilts his head in a considering fashion. “Suppose so, but I wouldn’t know about all that.” 

“That is no matter, because I do.” Crowley taps his pencil against the paper. “Your descriptions will help me figure out what kind of criminals I am looking for. So if you don’t mind, can I ask you a few questions?” 

Vincent’s lips press together for a moment, his eyes flicking towards the door behind him. 

“It would be invaluable to the investigation. These men might very well be the true culprits of the… situation in which Mr Fell has found himself.” 

“Alright then,” Vincent says with a sigh. “I shall try my best. I cannot leave my daughter’s side for too long, and she is not well enough for visitations.”

“I understand. I’ll be as quick as I can.” 

And with that, Crowley runs through a few quick questions. Vincent is able to provide information on not only who had been burglarized when, but what had been stolen or destroyed in the process. Mr Fell’s incident is curious in the fact that nothing at all had been taken. Vincent’s descriptions also prove to be useful in recognizing the manner of theft and entry. 

In the end, Vincent confirms what Crowley had suspected before. He underlines his conclusion with a satisfied sound and says, “Thank you for your time, that's all the questions I have.” 

“Hope I’ve been helpful.” 

“Very much so,” Crowley says. “Though Mr Fell’s case seems different, there are certain similarities with the others for me to be able to assume that they were done by the same people. For example, the manner of breaking the windows: what you described is consistent with a pick-axe. This also tells me they were not afraid of being heard.” 

“No, they’re aren’t the silent types you hear about in the stories.” 

“That’s important. Either they’re overconfident or they want to be heard.” 

Vincent presses his lips together. “Scary stuff, honestly. Do you think it got anything to do with the murder? We all got a fright when the thieves changed from stores to bedrooms, starting with Madam Tracy and now Mr Fell. But if they’re behind the killing…” 

“It’s too early to say. Madam Tracy was the first home break in?” 

“Yeah, a week before Mr Fell actually.” 

“Hmm.” Crowley takes a note. “Well, I won’t keep you, and William has cookies to return to.”

William’s eyes widen as if he’d forgotten and says, “Oh!” 

“I’ll find my own way from here,” Crowley tells him. “I have some more forms to put to the post. You can hurry back.” 

“If I can help more, you tell me?” 

“I will let you know.” 

“Thank you Mr Crowley, and thank you Mr Vincent.” 

With that, William hurries off. 

“He’s a good kid,” Vincent says. “Bjorn— Mr Yates, his father, thought him to be a simpleton for a while, but turns out he just had a hard time with letters. Couldn’t focus for the life of him. Mr Fell got him to try. He’s got these old Greek stories in the back, apparently children love them.” 

“He seems clever enough.” 

“When he got the words for it, yeah.” 

There is a soft call from behind the door and Vincent takes an immediate step back. “I have to go, wish Mr Fell the best from me.” 

“I will.”

Vincent gives a hurried wave and slips inside, closing the door quickly. 

Crowley lingers for a moment, listening to a voice murmuring and a child coughing. 

A child who couldn’t read. A father of a sick child fixing up the windows of storefronts without either the owner or himself having to worry about the money. A cleaner unable to clean a house and yet being paid. A square for all people to use. 

And these are just the ones Crowley has seen personally. 

Even if he were to believe — allowed himself to believe — that Mr Fell is completely innocent in the murder, who in the hell would want him to be framed? What can Mr Fell have done to draw the ire from an individual or entity powerful enough to set this in motion?

If all Mr Fell has done is help these people, who is benefiting from their misery? 

At last, Crowley walks back down the winding staircase, the question still lingering on his heels as he begins his trek through the city once more. 

Misery is a lucrative business. Ask any speakeasy bartender, drug mule or casino owner. People spend good money for a temporary escape. Has Mr Fell such an impact on the population that there are criminals being affected at the bottom line? Crowley can’t imagine so. Greenwich is only a small part of New York at large, and even within its borders, an occasional kindness will not turn the fate of a whole village. If Mr Fell had helped everyone, he’d be dirt poor just like the rest of them, no matter how much he started with. 

No, there must be a more personal motive behind it. If the burglary and murder are connected, it is too much of an escalation to be merely an emotionless plan to get rid of a cog in the system. It belies a sense of frustration, maybe even hatred. Even if the burglary isn't part of the framing, the same would be true-- because then there wouldn’t even be any escalation at all. 

There must be someone, or something, that is personally affected by Mr Fell in such a way as to motivate these drastic actions. And though the village speaks well of him, no one actually seems to know him. They all talk about what he’s done for them, not who he is or what he’s like, other than their angel. 

Now that he thinks of it, Crowley has never heard of anyone being close to Mr Fell. They don’t seem to visit him at his shop, except for when it's time to clean the house or to drop off a kid for reading lessons. He hasn’t even heard of any social outings Mr Fell has made in or outside the village. If he has, then he’s done so subtly. The only place Crowley knows for sure Mr Fell has gone to is to his family, for dinner and then to stay over after his place was broken into. 

Was that out of family obligation, or does Mr Fell have friends in his relations? It will be something to ask, but judging on how desperately Mr Fell wanted the repairs to not be postponed, Crowley can guess the answer. 

The only person Crowley can think of who had seemed to have formed some type of bond with Mr Fell was Mr Jones, who now is dead and gone. 

As Crowley walks into City Hall he wonders vaguely if there is an inherent danger to getting close to Mr Fell. He carefully doesn’t ask himself whether he would care, if it was the case. 

Luckily a spot at the till becomes free at that precise moment and Crowley rushes forward, glad to have an excuse to clear his mind before going too far down that particular path of treacherous thoughts. 

“What can I help you with, sir?”

Crowley clears his throat. “I want everything you have on the Els, starting with property acquisitions in the last six months. We can go from there.” 


	4. Chums and Chumley's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:
> 
> After this chapter, this fic is going on hiatus until at least the corona pandemic is done and over with in my country. I'm in Europe and vaccines are coming, but if it takes months it takes months. My housemate just recently tested positive so I'm likely to get it as well, and as long as I don't know what next week looks like, I'm not going to commit myself to larger projects. I might be writing one shots and ficlets in the meantime, I might not. But for now, my wips are on hiatus. 
> 
> I hope this chapter brings you a little joy. I did really love writing it. It would be lovely to let me know if you liked it, I could really use some positivity rn.

By the time Crowley is released from the clutches of bureaucracy, the clouds of yesterday have had a change of heart and grace the New York skies once more with their looming presence. The sun allows for occasional pockets of light, but ultimately the afternoon ends up feeling much more like an early evening. 

This latter fact is crucially undetected by Crowley, who only becomes aware of it after desperately jogging towards Finnegans. He’s just rushed through the door when a nearby church’s bells cheerily announce that instead of running late, he is over an hour early. 

Out of breath and with a flush on his cheeks, Crowley finds a seat in a private corner of Finnegans. He sits down and pretends to be reading through his notes, while trying to catch his breath. 

A server slides into his periphery and oils right back out after being given a one word order, Crowley’s phrasing more rude than he intended because he quite literally did not have enough air to form a sentence. 

It is uncharacteristic to be so affected by periods of increased movement. Crowley fancies himself quite the runner, as this is a crucial skill for both the capture of wayward criminals, and to escape those who deem his methods to be the criminal aspect of the situation. He’s not used to being red in the face, and for a sting to develop somewhere in his side. His chest feels tight too, and his hands are trembling just the slightest bit. 

Adrenaline, then. Too much of it. Maybe he exhausted himself running after William. Or, he has to accept that the threat of aging has turned its gaze upon him, and being up and around all day is no longer in his ability as it once had been. 

Crowley has almost convinced himself of the latter dire thought, when a paper slips out between the multitude documents he’d been able to finaggle out of the poor archivist clerk that had his shift earlier today. (Or, more accurately, the lucky bastard who just got twice his week’s wages for helping Crowley copy the information he’d needed.)

The paper that had escaped its chaotically organized cousins is a small news article that Crowley had found in the society pages of an issue published a little over two years ago. 

There is little of interest to the text, more than the confirmation that Mr Fell indeed came over from London by ship in the last month of 1919, and that he had enough social acumen for his arrival to deserve mention. But what had struck Crowley when he saw it— what strikes him again right now, as it falls into his view, is the small picture that accompanies the article. 

It is clearly a cut out of a larger image; edges of shoulders and hands without their owners line the frame. They’re waving towards the camera and there is enough context to extrapolate the rest of the scene: a picture taken from the dock, as the crowd on the ship spots their welcoming party, leaning over the edge and pushing against each other to see family, friends, or just the destination itself. 

But all that commotion is cut out so the picture centers on a single face: Mr Fell is not waving to the crowd. He’s not even looking towards the city. He’s looking back, out at sea, something wistful in his eyes. 

He stands in the unassuming stature that has become familiar to Crowley in barely a day, and his face can be considered to be a kind one, even without a smile. But there is something raw about the picture that makes it almost too intimate to be published like it was. Too personal. 

Crowley looks at the picture for an unreasonable amount of time, and wonders how a man who arrived here so terribly sad, could’ve turned out to be so incredibly kind. 

He wonders, vaguely, if that sadness is still there— and if it was, what it would take to see it. 

Mr Fell had been sad, definitely, discussing the death of Mr Jones. But it wasn’t a sadness like this: a resigned tragedy kept silent. A lonely burden. 

Crowley’s chest tightens a little more and he pushes the image out of sight. 

It will be strange to see Mr Fell again, now knowing so much more than he did yesterday evening. Much of his initial assumptions have been challenged or have been deepened, to only discover more unknowns and mysteries. 

He knows when Mr Fell came here, but he does not know why. He knows how people see him, but he does not know whether Mr Fell is aware, or cultivating this image. He’s beginning to figure out the goings on in Greenwich, but is still at a loss on how Mr Fell ever came to be a part of it. 

And the fact that he’s more preoccupied with these unknowns, than… for example, the state of the police investigation, is another item on the list of strangeness and potentially of great concern. 

But no matter, Mr Fell will soon arrive and maybe some mysteries will be resolved— secrets shared. 

The thought sends a quick sting of— something, through Crowley’s body. Anticipation, and— 

Oh god, is he nervous? 

That definitely will not do. 

Crowley orders another coffee post-haste and spends the rest of his waiting time quietly berating himself for his complete lack of professionalism, prioritization, focus, and ten other qualities he usually knows himself to have a grasp on. He is part-way through an internal monologue on the importance of not letting the subject’s potential tragic past influence your perspective no matter how quietly sad they look in a picture, when a cough calls for his attention. 

Crowley looks up, straightening for a moment as his heart trips in his chest, and then reclines in his chair, trying to conjure the same confidence he'd had a mere 24 hours ago. 

His fumbling attempt at composure leads to a strange pause where Mr Fell keeps standing there, in silence, apparently waiting for some sort of permission to sit down. 

Crowley clears his throat. “I apologize for already having ordered a drink. I was in need of refreshment after dealing with the valiant creatures native to the habitat of archival government.” 

Mr Fell takes the implicit meaning and takes a seat, though his appearance does not lessen in hesitancy after doing so. His shoulders are hunched in, much like they were in Crowley’s office, but this time he’s avoiding eye-contact all together. His gaze sticks to the floor when it isn’t flickering from side to side, as if he’s waiting for something to come out of the shadows and harm him. He is absolutely terrified. 

The curiosity that usually comes with such an observation is quelled by a sudden wave of concern.

As such, instead of ensuring no one is listening, or checking if Mr Fell has been followed, or any of the many other proper and logical actions at his disposal, Crowley leans in and says, “What happened?” 

Mr Fell makes a hesitant noise, opens his mouth as if to speak but then changes his mind again, his reticence punctuated by movements that can only be described as squirmy, and in some cases even slightly wiggly. 

Despite patience not being his most prominent ability, Crowley does not nudge the conversation along, as he has the acute sense that any amount of prodding might lead Mr Fell to wiggle his way right out of his seat, and therefore end the inquiry prematurely. 

It takes another moment hemming and hawing— one that is much too long for polite conversation unless none of the participants make any remark, implicitly or explicitly, on the existence of time as it passes — before Mr Fell takes a deep fortifying breath and says, “I believe that if I were to express my concerns in an honest manner, a subject which I would prefer not to discuss would inevitably be raised. If circumstances force me to do so—” Here, he swallows heavily, “—I would prefer it to not be in an establishment where this can be easily overheard, and therefore judged.” 

The words rush out with the speed of a race horse, if racehorses were quiet and wispy beasts whose noises could be drowned out by the hubbub of a medium sized cafetera during the afternoon. Crowley barely catches Mr Fell’s meaning before he continues on at the same tempo but his voice another measure lower in volume. 

“Therefore…. like to… Chumley’s… conversation, you understand?” 

“Chumley’s?” Crowley asks, keeping his face as neutral as possible in case he misheard. 

“Yes,” Mr Fell says with a significant nod. Meaning: _yes, the illegal one._

Crowley, again, utilizes his many years of experience to master his facial expression. “Oh, ah, yes, of course,” he says. “We can get a booth, for more privacy.” 

“Indeed.” 

Crowley nods, as if discussing the possibility to go to a speakeasy with Mr Fell is an expected outcome, and not a complete reassessment of his impressions of the man. 

“Give me a moment to pay for—”

Mr Fell shakes his head. “I took care of it when I came in, in case we had to make a quick get away.” 

“Clever,” Crowley says, eyebrows raised slightly. 

“No.” Mr Fell’s eyes flicker back to the windows. “Necessary.” 

Crowley pauses for a moment and then leans forward a little, and says in a low voice, “Are you in immediate danger?” 

Mr Fell jumps slightly and looks back at him immediately. A flush comes over him and he shakes his head. “No— I mean. Maybe. But not at this moment. I am just very worried someone is listening.”

Crowley steps back, something untwisting in his stomach. “Alright then. Follow me.” 

And so it goes. Mr Fell does not say one word as Crowley hails a cab, which drops them off a few blocks away from their incriminating destination. He is a silent, hand-wringing presence in the corner of Crowley’s periphery as they take a walk through the increasingly cooling evening breeze. He is quiet still when Crowley raps his knuckles against a small oak door at the back of a greyish building, and doesn’t flinch when the peephole in the door slides open and a watery blue eye appears behind it. 

“Archimedes,” Crowley says, “Mr Travers here. With a friend.” 

“Welcome, welcome,” comes the voice of the Chumley’s doorman. Wispy and thin, not at all what would be expected to come from the six foot three, broad shouldered behemoth of a man that opens the door for them, and offers to take their coats. 

“Mr Travers,” he says warmly, but in an amused way that hints at the fact he knows very well who is truly standing before him. Then his eyes scan Mr Fell from tip to toe and smiles wider. “And friend, indeed. A table at The Wall will be made available for you, Mr Rivers.” 

“Mr Rivers?” Crowley says to Mr Fell, as Archimedes steps away to hang their coats and hats in the back room.

“Sush,” Mr Fell whispers back, but a smile peaks out from under his worries now. 

“For all my time I’ve been here, I’ve never been seated at The Wall,” Crowley tells him. “It was my understanding only the most exclusive—”

“I might be more familiar with this establishment than I previously implied.” Mr Fell gives him a look. “You are aware that I am in fact not an American, are you not?” 

“Really? I never would have thought,” Crowley says, with an expression of exaggerated surprise. 

Mr Fell is unable to give a retort because Archimedes returns and begins to lead them into the speakeasy proper. 

The space opens up slowly. A short hallway ends in a chamber with a small bar off to the side, and three lounge chairs filling up most of the space. Two men sit across from each other, playing cards, and a third is at the bar, calling for a drink. Crowley nods at them as he passes, but Mr Fell actually stops for a moment to greet them by name. They continue on, entering a door that immediately leads another, larger hallway. Great royal staircases curve upstairs and one, in the middle, goes down. A small horde of waiters are hurrying up and down the stairs, entering one side, arms stacked with plates, and then rushing down empty handed again. 

Crowley hears rambunctious laughter and a cacophony of voices, and figures the restaurant must be hosting a dinner event of some kind. At any other time, Crowley would’ve prodded Archimedes for the specificities— maybe found a way to slip in the crowd and mingle with whatever masses are wining and dining. There is always something to learn on occasions such as this. Information spills out of the lips of the intoxicated elite as much as the prohibited drinks do over the edge of their glasses. 

But Crowley’s curiosity is focused— shaped into a fine point and aimed squarely at Mr Fell’s unassuming form. Who, now that Crowley thinks of it, is looking much more comfortable than he was at Finnegans. His shoulders are a little more squared and he’s greeting people with a genuine smile. 

Only when he meets Crowley’s eyes does a hint of his previous hesitance return. 

Archimedes holds up a hand and they wait until another procession of waiters floods the staircases. After the path has cleared, they follow him to the third staircase in the room; the beautiful spiral of steps going downwards. 

Crowley lets Mr Fell pass in front of him, and takes a leisurely pace as they descend further and further. 

Music slowly begins to overtake Archimedes’ heavy steps and Mr Fell’s more gentle ones. A crooning voice accompanied by piano welcomes them to the mainfloors of the speakeasy: a basement the size of a mess hall, but royalty decorated with oak wood and red velvet. The absence of windows is compensated by soft orange electric light and clusters of candles and oil lamps scattered against the walls, hanging from the ceilings and standing in the middle of tables. 

The place is packed to the brim with people. Archimedes skirts them deftly through the masses, and fragments of a dozen conversations come over Crowley at once. Conversations that seem to halt momentarily every time they pass. Eyes linger on Mr Fell more often than not and their procession is halted by greetings, witty rejoinders, and welcome wishes. Crowley recognizes a few faces and makes note of those who seem most intent to draw Mr Fell attention. 

Ostensibly, such an exercise’s purpose should be to gauge any threats. Despite Mr Fell’s admission that he was not in immediate physical danger, there is no reason to assume he is actually correct about this. Any of these individuals might wish Mr Fell harm, as a crime like a frame up belies a certain personal attachment to the target in question. One must know the target in order to achieve a plausable narrative of murder. 

But instead of looking for malicious intent, Crowley finds himself preoccupied with those whose eyes linger in a kind of awe— writers, artists, individuals of all kinds. It seems that Crowley is not the first who found Mr Fell a source of intrigue. 

They reach the last line of tables on the main floor, and go up yet another staircase that leads to a series of balconies looking over the people down below. Here, at The Wall, there is privacy unlike the other places in the speakeasy. The balconies are separated by thick walls and there are curtains you can close if you so choose, so even those watching from downstairs are unable to see you. 

“There you are, gentlemen.” Archimedes pulls out a chair for each of them, and then motions at them to sit down. “Your drinks will be brought up shortly. Anything else you need?”

Mr Fell shakes his head. “I’m afraid I have little appetite as of now. But maybe Mr Travers wishes for—”

“No need. A drink is sufficient.”

Archimedes nods with a little bow and leaves. 

They settle in, and for a long moment the music is the only sound between them. The waiter returns in due time, placing a glass of wine before Mr Fell and a whiskey for Crowley. 

Crowley takes a slow sip and lets the silence sit for a little longer. Mr Fell, on the other hand, takes a deep fortifying gulp. 

“Well,” Mr Fell says, after having put his glass to the side. “I should—” he stops and closes his mouth, purses his lips. “I suppose that— It might be prudent to inform you that there is pertinent information that—” he tails off again, hands wringing. There is a slight wobble to the table— Mr Fell’s knee, jiggling against it. 

“It might help to start at the beginning,” Crowley tells him. 

This elicits a snort from Mr Fell and he shakes his head. “There is no beginning to begin with. This is an issue of many sides and even more implications. I am far from comfortable to address such private matters, but I feel that my hand has been forced.”

“If you believe it to be relevant to the case, then it is only to your benefit for me to know about it,” Crowley says. “I cannot keep you out of prison if I get blindsided by new information at a later stage.” 

“Prison, yes,” Mr Fell says, going a little pale. He takes a deep breath and straightens in his seat. A veneer of determination comes over him and he looks Crowley directly in the eye. “Am I to understand that our conversations are under certain privacy privileges?”

Crowley nods slowly. “There are limits to it, of course. I can be charged for covering up a crime as much as anyone. It is expected of me to tell the police of any unlawful activity I come across. But, as you have surely noted—” he wiggles his glass of whiskey a little, “— my definition of criminal activity might differ slightly from the boys in blue.” 

“Then I suppose I must hope that this definition will not extend to the topic which I have to adress.” 

Crowley gives him half a smile. It is slightly too sharp to be companionable. “Many men have stood at my doorstep, confessing to shameful acts that I chose to resolve in ways that the law does not prescribe.” He pauses, and lets the sharpness melt away. “But, I get the sense, your issue does not lie in this direction. And if so, you do not need to fear me.”

Mr Fell nods and takes another gulp of wine. Then his eyes harden. “Do note that if you were to tell anyone of this conversation, I would deny it vehemently. If they believe your word above mine, I will be sure to include in my confession where exactly this conversation took place and what exactly we had been doing during it.”

Crowley’s smile grows into a grin of its own accord and he says, “A threat? Mr Fell, I didn’t know you had it in you. I’m impressed.”

Mr Fell huffs, but one corner of his mouth goes up a little. “You know as well as me how futile of a threat it is. It was a desperate attempt to gain some upper ground in this scenario, and I knew it failed the moment it left my mouth. I apologize.” 

Crowley waves it away. “Nonsense. You’re quite clearly backed into a corner. Lesser men would have done much worse. Now, lets stop circling around it, shall we? What did you bring me here to discuss?”

“I think it would be easier to start with telling you my encounter with the investigators this morning, as their actions instigated the tenuous situation in which I am in now.”

Crowley nods and gestures for him to continue. 

“The interrogation was amiable in the beginning. Or as amiable a police interrogation could be. They had me set up in a conference room, instead of one of those ugly questioning booths you hear about in the stories. One of the secretaries even brought me tea, which was palatable enough despite being brewed by an American.” 

Crowley suppresses a chuckle as not to interrupt Mr Fell. 

“They asked me similar questions to what the constables had asked me when they came upon the scene. ‘Verifying my story’, is what they told me, to ensure there were no inconsistencies. I believe I recounted the events in the same way as I had told them last night. If there were any inconsistencies, the shock of seeing my friend dead before me might have led me to initially omit certain things that I only remembered later, after a night’s sleep. But every primary element was present, and I felt that Detective Mulligan was especially agitated by this. He’d expected to catch me out on a lie, I believe. The man seems quite certain I am the guilty party, regardless of my protestations.” 

Mr Fell’s eyes go a little wide, like he is truly surprised at Mulligan’s behavior, as if the police have a history of considering all theories with nuance, as opposed to setting their teeth into the very first that comes to mind, and refusing to let go like rabid dogs gnawing on rotten meat. 

“It was only after the lunch break that I realised why this might be,” Mr Fell continues.

“You had a lunch break?” Crowley asks, despite himself. Last he heard, Mulligan had interrogated a suspect for 12 hours straight. He’d assumed that Mr Fell wouldn’t have had this hard of a time, but a _lunch break_?

“Of course we did,” Mr Fell says hauntingly. “Mr Shadwell insisted on it.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. There must be a true lawyer’s spine within him somewhere, if he managed to demand such luxuries from Mulligan. 

“But that was the last I saw of the police’s manners,” Mr Fell mutters. “Just before we finished eating, Detective Mulligan was taken aside by one of his aides. They spoke at the end of the hall, and the aide gave Detective Mulligan a card of some kind. When Detective Mulligan returned, he seemed like he was smiling a little, underneath his stoic complexion.” 

Mr Fell pauses for a moment. His hands are shaking a little. “And that’s when they started asking about the _nature_ of my relationship with Mr Jones.” 

“Ah,” Crowley says. Mr Fell’s behavior of the previous hour suddenly comes in a clearer light. Anyone would be terrified. “And I suppose they have a theory about what that nature might be?” 

Mr Fell grimances. “Yes.”

“Hmm.”

Mr Fell swallows. “They are wrong. I don’t know where they drew their conclusions from. I don’t know what is on that wretched card. But they are wrong.”

Crowley says nothing. He just slowly inclines his head a little. Because he knows that is not the truth of it. Or, at least, not the full truth. If it had been, Mr Fell wouldn’t have had any need for all this cloak and dagger. He’d have no reason to be nervous to this extent. What is an accusation of inversion if you are already been falsly accused of murder? 

And besides, Crowley has had his own suspicions. And the redness of Mr Fell’s cheeks, and the fear within his eyes, only confirm it. 

He waits another moment to let Mr Fell continue when he is ready— although he might never truly be. But when the silence stretches for longer than a minute, Crowley starts to wonder whether he should say something. There is truly nothing to fear, and he wishes he could let Mr Fell know that. 

But he cannot risk having misjudged the situation. He aches for Mr Fell, but if there is anything Crowley has learned in his lifetime, is that you never incriminate yourself first. You never know until you know. 

The creeping guilt makes time pass slower than it ought to, but at last Mr Fell begins speaking again. 

“They are wrong,” Mr Fell says again, softer this time, resigned. “They are wrong about our relationship. We truly were nothing other than friends— though I would have hesitated to put that word on it before his death. I saw him as an appreciated client, and can only now admit how important he’d become to me. I had to keep a distance. I couldn’t let him— They are wrong to think that there was anything— he had a wife, for christ sake. Children. That’s the main reason I told him no.”

Mr Fell flushes and covers his mouth with a hand. His eyes find Crowley’s. The fear within them is now entwined with pain and grief and Crowley cannot let him suffer any longer. 

He reaches out to Mr Fell’s other hand, which is pressed against the table so hard his knuckles are white. He lays his on top and says, “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry for who you have lost.” 

Mr Fell flinches at first, but then the words seem to land within him and his hands go limp, showing his mouth agape. Then he melts, truly melts— shoulders drooping, mouth slack, eyes closed — in relief. 

But it only lasts for a few seconds. There is still a hesitance to him, that niggling voice that does not want to believe in safety when it is hinted at. So Crowley retracts— allows him to have his space— and tells him, “I have seen the worst of people, Mister Fell. I’m intimately familiar with the horrors we can wreck upon one another. The true deviance that men are capable of is unimaginable. So, I know enough that this is not one of them. No matter what the law or the church says, I cannot pretend there is sin in love.” 

Mr Fell lets out a shuddering breath. His eyes are wet, and his cheeks shimmer in the low orange light. 

“Besides,” Crowley adds, wry, “it would be slightly hypocritical for me to do so.”

“Would it, now?” Mr Fell says, eyebrows kissing his hairline. A broad smile blooms on his face at once and he sighs once more. “Oh, I am so glad to hear— I’d hoped that my intuition had not led me astray, but God knows you cannot trust oneself on matters like this when there is so much at stake. Certainly not me, as I am not very skilled to recognize individuals like myself. I knew only of your reputation— Not that, mind. Just, that you were… unconventional.”

“I wouldn’t say that is inaccurate of you to say, no,” Crowley says. “I’d rather be offended if someone dared to call me conventional. I’ve seen convention for what it is and I want no part of it.” 

Mr Fell chuckles. “That perspective suits you, and I wish I could adopt it as well. But I’m afraid I’m conventional in more ways than not. It is only my... preference for companionship, that seems to set me apart. Other than that, I am perfectly usual. A little dusty, one might say.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Says the man framed for murder, in a speakeasy, to the private detective he’d managed to hire while being under direct investigation for said murder.” 

“Ah, I suppose— if you put it like that.” 

“And I propose that even without this current complication, you are very much not an ordinary man.”

Mr Fell tilts his head and seems to lean in a little closer. Though that might be the whiskey, tightening Crowley’s awareness of space— the balcony is much smaller, all of a sudden. 

“How so?” Mr Fell asks. “What evidence do you have to support such a claim?”

Crowley smiles. “Can’t be giving up all my secrets in one night. Mystery is part of my job description.”

“Hmm,” Mr Fell says eloquently, and he takes the last sip of his drink. His eyes seem to sparkle in the light. 

“Speaking of mysteries,” Crowley says, “you hadn’t finished your story.”

“Ah, yes, of course. I completely forgot there was more to it.” 

“The devil is in the details with cases like these. But the officer’s suspicion of your relationship with Mr Jones is definitely one such devil of a detail. Is there any way they could be aware of this particular facet of your private life? Anyone in New York who knows other than yourself?” 

Mr Fell purses his lips and considers the question with a serious weight. “I endeavored to put it all behind me, leaving London,” he says after a moment. “But Mr Jones must have sensed it somehow. Besides the flirtation, he’d invited me to one of those clubs where people like ours can be more open even while in public. I refused, of course. It would be much too dangerous and besides— it doesn’t seem like my type of thing, really. And it would only encourage him to say yes.” 

“But?” Crowley asks when Mr Fell falls silent, as his expression clearly signals the existence of a contradiction. 

“But,” Mr Fell acknowledges, “I got curious.” 

“Did anyone see you there that might have recognized you?”

“Yes. Mr Jones, and his friends.” Mr Fell shakes his head to himself. “I’d tried to go on a day I believed him to be working, but it turned out he’d been given the rest of the evening off.”

“Did Mr Jones introduce you to them?”

Mr Fell nods. “They seemed like good fellows. A little crude. Not the kind of people I’d imagined Mr Jones to be friends with, but kind nonetheless.”

Crowley fishes his notebook out of his pocket. “Did anything about them stand out?”

“No, I don’t believe so.” Mr Fell looks down to his hands and shrugs. “But I did not linger for long, so there is likely much I missed. Do you think that one of them sent in a tip to the police? That was what the card was about?”

Crowley inclines his head. “We have to consider the option, however uncomfortable the idea makes me.”

“Giving up one of our own— Though I would understand it, if he truly believes me to be guilty. All that blood, the anger. If they’d thought me capable of such a betrayal to their friend, they are right in trying to send me to prison.” 

“People tend to take rash actions when they are grieving. That does not make such a breach of your privacy right. You have not been arrested. You have not been tried. In all sense of the word, it is too early to deem you guilty.” 

Mr Fell shudders a sigh, nodding and then he smiles— small but warm. “Thank you for the sentiment. You believe my innocence then?”

Crowley looks away in reflex. He coughs to clear his throat. 

“Why else would you defend me so?” Mr Fells asks, confused. 

Good question, Crowley thinks, and sighs internally. 

“As I said,” he says after a moment, “it is too early to say either way. But from what I have seen so far; what I’ve heard said about you, and what evidence I’ve gathered, then no, I don’t think your guilt is the logical conclusion, and it is my responsibility to figure out who the true murder is before the framing can succeed.” 

“I’m glad,” Mr Fell says. “Not that you believe me— though that is most definitely good to hear— but that you have considered the situation objectively, and made your conclusion based on the evidence, not just because I am paying for your service. It gives me hope that others will be able to, in time, follow your line of thinking, and come to the same result.” 

“Making others see sense is one of my specialities,” Crowley promises. “Now, was that all I needed to know about the police interrogation?”

Mr Fell nods.

“Alright, then it is time for you to describe how you came upon the body— I am sorry, you must be sick of it by now. But it is important to me to have the details directly from you.”

Mr Fell nods again, a little more despondent this time, and begins telling the story. It follows most if not all the beats that Crowley had already overheard at the bakery, only now in a more sensible order, and without the flourishes of drama the morning crowd had given it. 

Instead, the frills are ones of tragedy— the moment Mr Fell saw the blood; the moment he recognized who was laying on his carpet; and then the realisation his friend was not only dead, but killed in a horrible manner. It was only when the police were called that he’d thought about being framed. 

“The door was locked, the body was still warm, and no one else had been in my shop for weeks. Every sign squarely pointed at me, and I had no alibi besides the people who saw me walk to the door. But I could’ve come out of the back, for all they knew. I’d been with my family, but everyone had either long left for bed, or was still at work. There was no one that could account for when Mr Jones was murdered. So I thought of you.”

“Of me, specifically?”

“Yes. When I arrived in New York the first thing I bought was the morning newspaper. And there you were, on the first page, a silhouette with a trilby. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, they called you.”

“The Donovan case.”

Mr Fell smiles. “You had just found her the day prior— traced the warehouse they’d held her by the paint specks you had detected in the blood spatter. If you hadn’t found her, a mob war would have begun just when I came to the city, or so the paper's subtitle claimed. So when I saw all that blood, I thought of one person who could make sense of it all. Later, I also realised that your intimate knowledge of the underground might come in handy, as I believed that this must have been done by a professional of some kind.”

“Astute observations,” Crowley says, clearing his throat and hoping his face isn’t doing anything embarrassing such as... becoming more red than it ought to be. “And that is when you persuaded the officer to take you to my office?”

“Precisely. And the rest of it you know.”

“Indeed,” Crowley says. “That is enough for now. Anything else you want to share? Is there anyone you’d believe wishes you harm?”

Mr Fell shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have believed the possibility of such cruelty if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I can’t believe there is anything I did to draw on such action. I have no gambling debts— or debts of any kind. I haven’t been here long at all. How could anyone do something like this to Mr Jones, in the name of hurting me? Why involve him at all?”

Crowley notes down the latter questions, as they mirror the thoughts he’d been having as well. “I believe there may lie the key. Framing is much more complicated than murder. Why not kill you? Is it to make you suffer, or do you need to be imprisoned for some larger nefarious plan? Maybe—”

“If you have to go much further in such thoughts, then please let me order another round. Sobriety does not suit me while listening to these horrors.”

“I apologize.”

Mr Fell waves it away, though his face is paler than it was. “No, I appreciate the brutal honesty. I suppose it is time for me to get used to things such as these. But that does not mean I won’t face them without some liquid courage.”

It is as if the staff of the establishment had been waiting on some magic sign, because not a few moments later a waiter passes by and asks them if they wish for anything. 

Crowley swallows— with his experimentation in kindness, he really hasn’t got the resources for more expenses. 

He doesn’t know if Mr Fell sees minor his hesitation or was already scheming his own kind gesture, but within a blink new drinks are ordered and put on Mr Fell’s tab— Crowley has no time to protest, nevermind argue Mr Fell’s point that he’s technically on company time, and therefore this is something Mr Fell needs to compensate. This topic somehow leads Crowley into admitting to paying the tab of Anne, and Mr Fell thanks him effusively for handling that errand for him and gives him the money back— with a little extra. Again, there is no space to get a word in edgewise, and Crowley finds him well and truly manhandled by kindness and generosity. 

This interlude covers about a bottle of wine, and it is far from the only one that is drunk that night. It seems like their mutual confessions have blown the lid off uncertainty between two relative strangers and conversation flows as easily as the wine does. 

It is until the waiter comes back apologizing that they don’t have any of Mr Fell’s favoured wines in stock anymore that either of them seems to remember the existence of the outside world. 

“I truly am sorry,” the young man says, heartfelt, “but we do have—”

“No, no, it is quite alright,” Mr Fell says, swaying a little in his seat and putting his glass down. “We’ve impeded your generosity more than enough. Look —” He points to the downstairs area “— most everyone has left!” 

“It really isn’t any problem—”

“Nonsense. You must want to go home and sleep. Which, I believe, is what we should do as well.”

With this statement a hint of relief comes on the waiter’s face. Crowley’s eyes fall to his watch and the darned thing dares to tell him it is 2 am, even though that much time couldn’t have passed during the short moment Mr Fell and him conversed. It hadn’t felt that long at all. 

“I shall prepare your coats,” says the waiter, and turns to leave.

“Wait wait, young man. Don’t be so hasty.” Mr Fell stands up unsteadily and bends to grab his vest— which he’d taken off about an hour ago stating the room was getting far too hot. He rifles through an inside pocket for a moment and pulls out a few bills with a victorious flourish. 

“There. For putting up with us.”

The waiter smiles as he takes the generous tip in both hands, and he gives a little bow. “Thank you, for your patronage.” 

“It’s only right,” Mr Fell says, smiling. “Now off to bed with you. Shoo!” 

He turns to Crowley when the waiter has left with his hands on his hips and says, “We should follow suit. Come— up you go.” 

Crowley, who had been comfortable on his chair, thank you very much, doesn’t have the strength to refuse Mr Fell, and takes the offered hand. 

It’s a strong grip. Warm and gentle. 

The world sloshes gently as Crowley is pulled upright. 

He’s sure Mr Fell lets go right after, but his touch lingers. 

Crowley decides he is drunk enough to have no issue with that fact. He puts his hand in his pocket in an attempt to keep the warmth where it is, and doesn’t question his motives one iota. 

He remains in this peaceful state as he follows Mr Fell back to the entrance hallway— a journey that goes much faster without anyone to greet— and continues to float along on that fuzzy feeling. Even the cold night air can’t shake him out of it. The conversation picks up again where it left off before the rude interruption of a wine absence. 

“There is no way a cab will take us like this,” Mr Fell declares. 

“If they would, we would make them accomplices to a crime,” Crowley points out, motioning his hand shakely between them. “We are, quite clearly, friends of the bottle.” 

Mr Fell laughs and nods. “Let us walk it off together.”

“We must not seem… suspicious.” 

“Mustn’t we? Well, then I would recommend trying to walk in a straight line, my old friend.” 

_Old friend._ The words sound so nice in Mr Fell’s voice that Crowley almost walks into a pole. 

Mr Fell’s reflexes save him as he pulls on Crowley’s sleeve and gets him out of the way just in time. 

“Be careful!”

“I’ll do my best, _old friend,”_ Crowley says, wiggling his eyebrows and grinning wide. 

Mr Fell flushes. “I— ah. Sentimentality always seems to come easy to me.”

Something softens in Crowley’s chest, and it quiets any inkling of warning that is set off in the back of his mind. Sentimentality is dangerous, in places like these— times like these. But it all seems so far away, walking close together on a cold night, on quiet streets. Or, as quiet as New York streets ever get. 

“Wine warms hearts,” Crowley says, and adds, in a faux-whisper, aAnd we have had a lot of wine.”

Mr Fell smiles wobbly. “That we have.” 

They go silent for a moment as a group of people pass them on the other side of the street. Crowley tries his very best to keep walking as straight as he can, and he sees from the corner of his eye that Mr Fell is also struggling. 

Once the men are out of earshot, Mr Fell begins to giggle. 

“Shhh.” 

“I am sorry— I just—” Mr Fell’s noises of delight swoop into a full belly laugh. “You— you looked like a penguin— with a hat!” 

Crowley shushes him some more, reaching for his arm where Mr Fell has bowled over with his hands on his knees. “You didn’t look much better. Come— come, you’re being too loud.”

Mr Fell just continues laughing and Crowley eventually takes him by the wrist and begins to drag him a little further— away from the intersection at least. He can’t help but smile a little, all the while trying to keep a lookout for anyone else coming nearer. It’s a hard ask, when the world seems to be swaying on its axis every time his head makes a move. 

“You’re a menace,” Crowley mutters. 

“I am— very— sorry,” Mr Fell says, between breaths, but when he looks up to Crowley he just falls into giggles again. “You— you look like a tomato. A tomato penguin, wearing a hat.”

“That is a new one.”

“It’s— it’s the cheeks.”

Mr Fell comes in closer, pointing at the facial feature in question.

“They’re so red!”

That makes Crowley flush only brighter. “It is genetic,” he protests, setting his jaw a little. 

Mr Fell’s eyes widen. “Oh! No, I don’t mean—” 

They’ve come to a standstill at the mouth of an alleyway. Mr Fell is much too close, and they’re almost hidden in shadow, when he adds, “it’s nice. That’s all. It’s happy. Wine-happy.”

Crowley swallows, unsure what to respond, when he sees a flash of light from the corner of his eye—

A cop car, coming their direction. 

In a movement that has no thought before it, Crowley drags Mr Fell further into the alley, and pushes him against the wall, covering him.

Mr Fell lets out a surprised oof, and begins to speak, but Crowley puts a hand over his mouth and shushes him sharply now. Mr Fell freezes under him, his eyes now flickering to the street, and Crowley _feels_ it when Mr Fell’s breath hitches. 

They wait in utter silence as the car passes, and then longer still to make sure there isn’t more coming. 

At some point Crowley drops his hand from Mr Fell’s mouth. It tingles a little. 

Mr Fell smiles broadly at him, and Crowley is almost worried he’ll start giggling again, but he keeps quiet, letting out a soft breath.

“What did you say again,” Crowley whispers, “I keep you out of trouble?”

Mr Fell laughs quietly. “I’d say you did.”

“It was close.”

“Yes, that it was,” Mr Fell agrees. He’s still smiling as he says, “What an _adventure_.”

Neither of them have moved away. 

They’re still there, pressed chest to chest. Mr Fell with his back against the wall and Crowley, holding him there. 

“Maybe too much of it,” Crowley says, under his breath.

“I wouldn’t say so.”

They eyes meet. 

Crowley feels it, when his own breath hitches. 

Mr Fell— he just keeps smiling. 

Crowley wants to. He wants to—

He takes an abrupt step backwards. So fast that he almost falls— stumbling instead over the cobblestones and barely righting himself on time. 

Mr Fell laughs at him, and puts a hand on Crowley’s shoulder to steady him. “I think our close call at least sobered me up a little. I see it hasn’t done the same for you?”

“No— no,” Crowley steps away from him, and then moves a little further— both to prove his point and to increase the distance between them. “I’m fine.”

“Well then. For as much as I enjoyed the excitement, it is terribly cold.”

Crowley shivers, only now noticing the truth of the fact. He feels chilled to the bone. 

Mr Fell begins to walk out of the alley way and Crowley follows numbly, sparing one backwards glance to the site of his almost undoing. 

Christ. 

He’s a client— a grieving one at that. Just because he— because there could be a chance that— doesn’t mean this is anywhere near a good idea. 

And besides, this night had been nice. Almost too nice. Crowley hasn’t been able to talk so openly about this in so long. Steph had been the closest thing and she never had the interest nor patience to speak about anything for long. Words of passion were a waste in her book if you could spend your time doing it. 

But Mr Fell had been unerringly attentive the whole night. Like he’d truly cared about what Crowley said. 

_Old friend._

There is no reason to sabotage both his case and this— whatever this is, in the name of some impulsive attraction.

He is the Angel of Greenwich. Crowley should’ve expected to be swayed by his kindness in more ways than one. 

Crowley spends on this line of thought for the rest of their journey. He realises only belatedly that for all intents and purposes, he is walking Mr Fell home. 

Mr Fell says that his families’ place is too long of a walk, but that a neighbor had offered a spare bed in case he needed it. 

“He is off to a lady’s friend's house, and will not return until the weekend,” Mr Fell says. “It is a little messy, but I prefer privacy to luxury at this point.” 

When they finally reach their destiny, Crowley swallows and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. 

There are too many elements— his racing heart, the flush that surely must still be on his cheeks, the way Mr Fell hesitates on the doorstep — that make it all too easy to read the situation into something it definitely is not. 

Mr Fell clears his throat. “Are you sure you are safe to make your way back alone? Wouldn’t you like some coffee before you go, to warm up?”

A series of images flash before Crowley’s mind that take inventive spins on the definition of ‘warming up’ and he takes a step back in reflex, already shaking his head. “No, no— the cold has done me good. I’ll catch a cab at mainstreet.” 

“Oh, alright,” Mr Fell says, and Crowley is sure he’s projecting the hint of disappointment. “Be safe, then.”

“Of course.” Crowley begins to turn, but something in him makes him stop. “I—” he swallows. “It was a good night, Mr Fell.” 

He can’t help but look back and catch Mr Fell’s expression— a warm, soft, smile. 

“Aziraphale, please,” he says, after a moment.

Crowley’s heart drops to his stomach. 

“That is kind of you to say,” Crowley says, when he regains his voice. “But, you’re my client, Mr Fell.” 

Mr Fell’s smile wavers, but he’s nodding, looking away a little. “Of course— Of course. I apologize.” He straightens, meeting Crowley’s gaze with a final nod, and a renewed smile. It is— it is wrong. “I’ll see you again soon, I expect?”

Crowley gets the sick feeling he misstepped somewhere, but the window to fix it closed the moment Mr Fell returned to his polite self. “Yes,” he says, distantly. “I’ll be focusing on Mr Jones, and the nightclub lead tomorrow. But I will send word once we need to reconvene.”

“Perfect. Thank you again for your hard work. I’m very grateful you took my case.”

 _Me too_ , Crowley doesn’t say. His throat is too tight to get the words out. 

“Now, please, I feel bad watching you shiver in this cold.”

“Ah, yes, I—”

“You promised you would get yourself a cab. Don’t go walking more, you hear?” Mr Fell reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bill. “Here, the fare.”

“Mr Fell—”

“You are here because of me, so it is only right to provide for your way home.” 

Crowley watches Mr Fell open the door and says, “Goodnight,” so softly he is sure Mr Fell couldn’t hear it. 

But he does. He stills for a moment, and then says, “You as well, Mr Crowley.”

And then he’s gone. 

Crowley walks all the way home. Empty, yet filled with guilt. 

He gives the fare to a beggar resting in the alley besides his office. 

It takes him until the early morning to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, again, shits fucked. I'm okay atm, no symptoms, but you just never know. Stay safe yall, and thank you for sticking with me.

**Author's Note:**

> The discord community of this event has been my refuge ever since The Situation began, and I truly am so grateful for their vibes, support, cheering, ect. It's been a rough time for all of us on this planet but each and every one of you made it easier to bare.  
> Thank you to the mods for running this. 
> 
> And thank you to my beta, ScribeofArda, for being able to check last minute additions as I Frantically try to make something worthy.
> 
> Due to Circumstances in my personal life, I could not pre-write chapters as I had planned. As such, be aware that this is a wip. I've got an outline (it is Long), and the second chapter is about 70% done. I'm hoping to post the next chapter in 2 weeks at the latest. I'm unsure if I'm gonna do a post-as-write thing or gonna try to take a few weeks and churn out some chapters. I have Been Known to go feral and just finish a chapter a week, but that was a while ago and I'm not gonna make promises that are gonna stress me out later.
> 
> So to end the rambling: I'm gonna try to enjoy myself and be chill. Chapters will come when they come! I usually post in the weekends, so heads up for that :D I'll update yall if a regular posting schedule is on the horizon.  
> Hope you enjoyed it and please remember to also give love to the art if you plan to comment! Taya deserves all of it.


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